


I'm Happy At Home

by roggietaylor



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: A Night at the Opera Era, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Ridge Farm era, Set at ridge farm, Song: You're My Best Friend (Queen), veronica plays a very small role in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2020-07-11 18:56:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roggietaylor/pseuds/roggietaylor
Summary: Roger's had feelings for John since he joined the band. Feelings he's mostly ignored but living with him during the creation of A Night At The Opera brings all those old feelings back up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I'm back! I don't know if anyone has read my other Joger fic "hear you call my name" but I finally got around to writing another. I was eager to do it back after i finished the first but life got in the way so now I'm hoping to have two separate fics updating at the same time, we'll see how that goes haha! Anyway comment if you like this chapter, hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> P.S. Something went weirdly awry when posting this so if it posts twice that's why!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm back! I don't know if anyone remembers my other Joger fic "Hear You Call My Name" but I've been eager to write again after that I just hadn't had the time! I'm hoping to write a separate fic to this and update them at the same time we'll see how that goes but anyway-- please comment if you like this fic so far and I hope you enjoy it <3

“I’m bored,” said Roger for the fifth time that day. He wasn’t sure who he was telling anymore. He laid out on the couch and stared at the ceiling, hoping someone would hear. Last he checked Brian was the only one missing.

“Yes we know, Rog,” laughed Deaky somewhere to his left.  
  
“Rog, why don’t you work on a song?” offered Freddie. “That’s why we’ve come isn’t it? To write.”

“That’s why you and Brian’ve come.”

“I do find it fascinating that when it comes time for us to consider one of your songs you’re an equal songwriter in the band, but when it’s time to work you’re ‘just the drummer’,” teased Freddie.

“I find that fascinating as well,” replied Roger flatly.  
  
“You’re insufferable, I’m quitting the band,” said Freddie in an even tone and he collected the scraps of paper he’d written on. It was his third time quitting the band that week.

“Write something I can put a fast beat on!” called Roger, craning his neck to watch Freddie leave, “No more fucking ballads!”

Freddie responded only with his middle finger, just as Roger suspected. He readjusted and sank back into the sofa before turning to look at Deaky. Pensive and unreadable as ever with a legal pad on his lap.  
  
“Has lightning struck twice?” said Roger.

“Hm?” said John, looking up only after Roger didn’t respond to his initial hum. “Lightning?”

“I mean, have you written us another song?” said Roger with an awkward laugh. When John was working something out, no matter what it was, he wasted no extra brain power on being anything more than civil when he spoke.  
  
“Oh,” began John, suddenly snapped out of his pensive state, a hand unconsciously covering the words scrawled on the paper, “its nothing, not yet anyway.”

“Go on, Deaks, sing us some,” said Roger, waving his hand to prompt him.

“No no, it’s really nothing yet.”

“Am I allowed to hear it if it becomes something?”  
  
“I’ll consider it,” said John the smile on his face slowly fading as his eyes returned to his paper.

Roger wanted to offer a game of pool, ping pong, hell even a swim in the unheated pool. Anything to break up the monotony, and anything to spend time with John.   
  
He’d only admit it to himself, even then he was mostly in denial. Sometime in 1971, Roger spent an afternoon with just John, just the two of them working out kinks in the rhythm of a song he didn’t remember anymore. After that the urge to be close to him, to be alone with him never fully went away.   
  
In 71 his instinct was to tell Freddie and get advice. Freddie promised him it would fade, so Roger told him it had. Freddie was so concerned with John being so young and so detached from the idea of being a rocker, he couldn’t handle knowing there was another reason John might leave them. And Roger knew he could keep it to himself. Nothing would be helped by him spilling his guts.  
  
“I can feel you staring,” said John without looking up.  
  
“I’m not,” said Roger, averting his eyes as a blush crept onto his face.  
  
“Write another Tenement Funster, something fun,” said John. “Something loud.”  
  
“That all you think I am? Loud and fun?” said Roger trying to oversell how offended he was so John wouldn’t hear the real hurt in his voice. “I could do a ballad, I could do a fourteen minute love song. I’m more than loud guitar and fast drums—”  
  
“I only meant those are more fun to play,” said John holding his hands up in surrender, his eyes finally meeting Rogers.

“Oh.”  
  
“It’ll come to you,” said John, “I can feel it, You’ll have a hit on this album.”

“Will you?” said Roger gesturing to the pad in John’s lap.   
  
John shrugged and grinned a little embarrassed, a little proud. Roger grinned back. 

  
~~~  
  


“Freddie, really, you’ll have to pitch up those last few, I can’t go higher,” said Roger.

“One more try,” offered Freddie over the booth mic.

“My voice is worn out, you’ll be getting squeaks if I try to go any higher than a B3, Im on break.” Roger punctuated the statement by taking his headphones off and letting them fall to the floor. He could see Freddie beginning to pitch a fit and decided not to watch. Instead he walked straight out of the barn-turned-studio and ignored Freddie’s pleas for his return. It was Brian’s turn to be manhandled.

He found his way back to the main house and went in search for something to eat.   
  
“Oi,” said John appearing in the kitchen doorway. Roger jumped and fought the smile that came with seeing him. “How’d the recording go? Any better today?”

“No,” said Roger with a laugh as he leaned back against the counter. “I just can’t go as high as he thinks, he’s in there trying to manually extend my range, absolutely refuses to just pitch it up to where he wants it.”  
  
“Maybe he’s refusing because he knows you can do it,” said John. He took a step or two into the kitchen with Roger and rummaged around the cabinet for tea bags.  
“I appreciate the support, but I really can’t reach all the way up there.”  
  
“You always find ways to surprise us,” said John, before turning to Roger with a box of tea bags in his hand and a smile across his face. John smiled often, he wasn’t one to be stingy or shy about it. And yet every time Roger saw him with that same stupid grin on his face his cheeks burned.

“Well,” Roger’s voice came out more of a squeak than usual, “it’s Brian’s turn now. Freddie’ll have him play ’til he bleeds.”

“Any idea if this songs worth it?”  
  
“It’s Freddie, it’s always worth it.”

They sat in comfortable silence while John steeped his tea and Roger assembled a sandwich. Roger looked up every once in awhile, another thought just about to leave his lips but nothing seemed good enough to say to John. It wasn’t always so bad, he wasn’t always so skittish and at a loss for words. But living with John at the farm, getting to see him every morning, every night, and every afternoon, it had his heart pounding and his head swimming.

“Will you please stop staring,” said John, “the song’s not done before you ask.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” said Roger. “But now that you mention it.”

“I’m stuck!” groaned John dramatically. John wasn’t much of a song writer, he wrote bass lines not lyrics typically. But ‘Misfire’ had been delivered to their doorstep entirely finished. Roger had no idea what his process was and if this was a good sign or a bad one.

“Stuck on what?”

“All of it,” said John with a mirthless laugh. He shrugged. “I might scrap it.”

“Don’t scrap it,” said Roger, a little too quick. “If it’s half the song Misfire was, it’ll be a hit. Give it some space, let it breathe before you try to work on it again.”

“I guess I can sort out the bass line for Freddie’s…thing,” sighed John.

“Don’t sound too exited,” said Roger.

~~~

Roger avoided the others for most of the day. Fiddling with his drums or working on his own scraps of songs instead. He couldn’t deal with more vague but passionate demands from Freddie. He loved that Freddie had a vision and that Freddie was intent on making that vision a reality. But Freddie didn’t play drums and had no idea how to communicate what he wanted out of Roger which tired him out to no end. Freddie would mime and sing something he wanted from the drums, Roger would replicate it perfectly and Freddie would wave it away and ask him to start over.

So the day began with him fiddling with his rhythms while avoiding the others, and ended him with him trying to quietly play pool against himself. He had one of the engineers playing with him but once seven o’clock hit he was gone home. But refining his own skills by playing alone sounded much better than listening to Freddie and Brian bicker over something they’d end up scrapping anyway.

He’d just sunk another ball when the door creaked open. It was impossible to sneak around with doors that loud.

“There you are,” said John, sticking his head in.

“How’d you find me?” replied Roger, not looking away from the shot he was spotting.

“I didn’t mean to. Brian and Freddie are ‘fine tuning’ something and they’re very cross about it.”

“Wouldn’t be Freddie and Brian if they didn’t get furious over something small,” laughed Roger, still not looking up.

“Am I…” John cleared his throat, “interrupting? Should I leave you alone or—“

“No no,” said Roger, quickly waving him into the room. “Come in, come in. I was only practicing, hoping to hustle Brian out of some money later. Rack ‘em up, we’ll start our own game.”

John lit up and shut the door behind him before lifting a cue off the wall mounts. Roger moved to the mini fridge and pulled out two lagers for them both. He popped both caps off on the countertop and handed one off to John. He took a big swig while he chalked up his cue. Roger tried not to watch the way his muscles worked while he took those big gulps of the lager. Ogling his friend wasn’t something he made a habit of but he had moments of weakness where something mundane about John would catch his eye or pique his interest and he’d be unable to focus on anything else.

“Stop staring,” laughed John.

“I wasn’t—”

“I know I’m drinking it fast,” groaned John, “but Freddie’s been a real tit all day.”

“Oh,” said Roger with an awkward laugh, “well…I wasn’t staring.”

Roger collected the sunken balls and rolled them across the table to John who collected them all into the rack and carefully placed it between the first and second diamonds.

“Am I doing this right?” said John.

“Normally when you set the balls up you alternate stripes and solids…and you leave the 8 ball in the center.”

“I’m not redoing it,” said John with a wide grin, “Break.”

Roger broke for them and sunk two stripes by chance. He cheered and gloated as if it had been on purpose. That trend continued as he sunk more and more balls while John kept missing them almost entirely. On the occasion he did get the cue ball to graze one of the solids they didn’t travel far. Roger asked for the best two of three when he inevitably won the first game.

Roger racked the balls again and let John break for the second round. No balls went in. John threw his head back and stared at the ceiling in defeat.

“Don’t give up yet.” Roger’s words were masked behind a laugh that made them sound insincere and made John’s mouth quirk up in a barely hidden smile.

“How do you do it? You ended the game in two turns.”

“It’s all maths, Deaky. You’re good at maths.”

“The only time I really use maths is to work out time signatures, I’m well out of practice,” said John.

“Speaking of time signatures—”

“No, I haven’t finished the song yet,” interrupted John.

“Well can I least hear the subject matter? Is it about premature ejaculation again or have we moved onto mature ejaculation?”

John fought a laugh and shook his head. He propped his cue up and rested on it, taking a deep breath before looking up at Roger again. “It’s about friendship, I guess. Love and friendship.”

“Oh.” Roger’s palms started to lose their grip on his cue. “Love and friendship?”

“You know, old love like that. Comfortable love that makes you feel at home,” said John, his eyes drifting from Roger to the hopeless came of pool on the table.

“That’s sweet,” said Roger, his mouth suddenly dry, “is it a ballad?”

“No, it’s pop-y, you’re sure to hate it.”

“I’m sure I won’t, I loved Misfire.”

“Well.” John shrugged and stood up straight, pretending to know what he was doing as he scanned for a ball to hit.

“So’s it a tribute to…someone in your life then?” said Roger, before his mind caught up to his mouth.

“Ah, the meaning’s up to the audience isn’t it,” said John coyly.

“Very diplomatic of you, Deaky.”

“Go on, tell me what the secret is,” said John, beckoning him over to his side of the table.

“Secret to what?” said Roger, a blush just barely starting to prick his cheeks, though he didn’t know why.

“To hitting one of these damn balls.”

“Oh—well—”

“Get over here and demonstrate.”

Roger joined him on the opposite end of the table. He could feel the heat radiating off his body. It was cold up at the farm, chilly at best. But the house got warm when they were all together. Or maybe Roger just liked to think that, liked to have an excuse to want to see John so often.

“Which do you want to hit?” said Roger.

“You tell me.”

Roger took a second or two to find the easiest shot possible and pointed at the nine ball, already teetering on the edge of a pocket. He pointed at it with the entire length of cue, almost grazing it.

“Hit that ’n',” said Roger.

“How?”

“Get the cue between your fore finger and your middle,” said Roger, wrapping John’s hand around the cue in the correct position. “Now you spy the shot over your first knuckle, then hit the cue ball dead center.”

“That’s what I was doing.”

“If that’s what you were doing you would’ve made a shot.”

John sighed and bent over the table and positioned the cue behind the cue ball. Roger stood beside him with a hip cocked and watched him reel back and fire the ball across the table. Not only did he miss his target, he missed all other balls, an impressive feat in and of itself. Before the cue intersected with any of the other balls, Roger scooped it up and placed it where it’d been before, lined up perfectly with the nine ball.

“Let’s do that one more time,” teased Roger.

“What did I do wrong?”

“Didn’t hit it dead center.” Roger reached over the table to fix John’s grip, ever so slightly guiding his fingers around the length of the cue. “Also, you don’t need to use your full power on every shot.”

“How hard then?”

“Well…just a bit hard,” said Roger, knowing that wasn’t much help at all. John looked up at him, pool cue cocked and ready to try once again. Even then, while asking for advice and help, he managed to look at Roger like he knew better and Roger couldn’t help but grin back. “I’ll show you.”

Roger stepped behind John. A move he’d pulled on many girls before, it was a simple one. The girls never knew how to play pool, he’d guide them through a shot as an excuse to press his body against their’s and it always ended back at his flat or at least in the back of his car. But John didn’t soften the way the women did when he pressed his chest to his back and eased his hand down John’s arm to hold his grip in place. And he didn’t make a noise when Roger’s other hand ran up his thigh, up his hip and back down to meet John’s left hand, waiting to hit the ball.

“About this hard,” husked Roger in John’s ear, something he hadn’t meant to do exactly but something John didn’t flinch at.

He pulled his arm back on the cue, bringing John’s with him, and hit the ball dead center. He shot across the table and nudged the nine ball into the pocket.

“It went in,” said John, his voice low.

“It did,” said Roger with a soft laugh.

John looked over his shoulder at Roger, a blush creeping onto his cheeks, though Roger was fairly sure that was the beer’s fault, not his own.

“You can get off me now.” John grinned at him, everything he said lighthearted. In the dim lighting of the billiards room, John looked softer, his features smoothed and the frustrations of the day calmed. Roger stared for a moment before stuttering out a laugh and standing upright. John stood up slower, his eyes never left Roger’s.

“So the song you’re working on—” began Roger.

“There you two are!” called Brian, as the door flew open. “Oh…am I…interrupting—”

“Not at all!” said Roger, his face bright red.

“Roger got cue chalk in my eye, I think he’s blinded me,” said John cooly. “Come look come look, you can still see it in the right light.” John beckoned him over but Brian stayed put.

“I don’t care if you’re blind, deaf, or dumb, you can’t ditch me and Freddie just because you don’t like hearing criticism, come on!”

“The sound engineers have gone home,” whined Roger. “I want to go out or at very least I want to relax.”

“You’ve relaxed enough, now hurry or Freddie’ll go ballistic, and so will I for that matter.” Brian left with a dramatic flourish but didn’t shut the door as another invitation for them to follow.

There was a strange silence between them as they both waited for Brian’s footsteps to reach the backdoor and trail out to the barn.

“Come on, we’ll only regret keeping Freddie waiting,” said John.

“Right,” said Roger. “Sorry…about…”

“About what?” said John. Roger froze. “Oh about beating me at pool, well, I wasn’t really planning on winning.” John held a weak smile through the awkward silence that followed before adding, “we ought to hurry, Freddie won’t like to wait much longer.”

John left first and Roger followed a half step behind him back out to the barn. Their practicing, though grueling, was fruitful, their timing getting better with each round of trial and error while Freddie made adjustments to the piano accompaniment and Roger and John made adjustments to their drums and bass respectively. The longer Roger stayed silent behind the drum kit running over the same parts of Freddie’s cowboy song the more he wondered if he dreamt up the tension in that room with John, tension he thought he could cut with a knife. God was he really so pathetic that he was now _imagining tension_ between them.

It was the boredom, it was the loneliness, it was John’s proximity. Nothing deeper nothing more serious, nothing that had to really be dealt with.

After their practice they closed down the studio for the morning and were all hurried off to bed by Brian who insisted they get an early start tomorrow. Roger could only give John a little wave as he descended into the basement in a hurry. Roger waited until he heard John’s door slam before gripping the bannister and hoisting himself up the first few steps to the upstairs.

“What’s that look for?” said Freddie. Roger looked up to see him hanging over the railing, watching him.

“What’s what look for?” Roger continued up the stairs and made to rush into his room but was stopped by Freddie blocking his doorway.

“If you’re back on this, Rog, you know you can’t act on it. He’s delicate—he’s _married_ —”

“He’s a he, Fred. It’s nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing in ’71 when you thought telling him was a good idea,” spat Freddie.

“It _was_ ,” said Roger through gritted teeth. “It was nothing then it’s nothing now. I don’t swing that way and you know it, I don’t care what you thought you saw—”

“ _Thought_ I saw? I know that look in you Roger, I saw it with all your little girlfriends, I’m not blind I’m your fucking roommate, your best friend—”

“So you should know best that this isn’t an issue. It never was.” Roger shoved him out of his door frame and hurried to slam the door behind himself before Freddie could add anything to the conversation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This chapter's not incredibly lengthy but it's got a lot of content that was hard to write around so I hope you enjoy it and if you do please comment !! :)

“It’s a ballad,” said Freddie, one wrist limp. Roger grinned fondly remembering the days when he still had to defend Freddie for those little quirks. Freddie’d since gotten around to defending himself.

“Another bloody ballad,” said Roger, all talk and no bite.

“No drums no bass, nothing but my voice and some strings,” said Freddie. Roger sighed and shoved more of the breakfast sausages into his mouth. Freddie spun to pour the kettle over his tea. Brian and John, sat next to Roger at the bar, started stuttering. John no doubt wondering why he’d been excluded, Brian about to insist they all be included. The idea of carrying one of Freddie’s ideas alone was daunting and made Roger glad drums were not a solo instrument.

Freddie, stood in the kitchen, eyes pointedly avoiding his audience of breakfast eaters at the bar, and waved his hands to quiet their muttering.

“It’s an ode, a ballad in the purest form. Strings and vocals, it needs to sound as delicate as it can,” said Freddie.

“You’re going to kill me,” teased Brian.

“I think I might because, Brian, now keep an open mind—”

“Oh no—”

“Rather than guitar, I’d like…the harp.” Freddie looked intently at his tea when he said those words. “They’ve got one in the studio, I was fiddling with the sound and I think this song will only work on harp so…”

Brian leaned back in his chair and groaned. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll make no promises. I’ll give the harp a shot but—”

“Oh thank you, Brian!” squealed Freddie over any of Brian’s cautioning. “I knew you could do it!”

“I didn’t say I could—”

“Thank you, Brian!” cried Freddie, loud enough to drown out Brian’s voice. Roger couldn’t help snigger with John.

Roger wouldn’t say it out loud, he’d barely tell himself, but he had hoped he’d been wrong about the tension he felt with John those few days ago. It was nice, and convenient, that he’d imagined it all. Convenient not to have to explain anything to John or, worse, Freddie. There were no friendships damaged, no mess to clean up. But no reward. All the tension and fear and risk was leading somewhere Roger very much wanted to go. It was safer here with their friendship intact and only his dignity bruised, but it was a bit lonelier.

“We can do the harmonies later once your voice isn’t so deep from sleep,” said Freddie to Roger.

“My voice isn’t sleepy anymore, Fred, let’s get it over with,” groaned Roger.

“You sound like a man, I don’t need that for my harmonies.” Freddie clapped and quieted the complaint that nearly came from Roger. “Alright boys! Sweet Lady backing track!”

“God you sound like Reid,” groaned Roger.

“Reid’s going to fucking kill us if we don’t turn this album in soon, I’m just expediting the shit we already have worked out and some of that shit is Sweet Lady!”

“It’s not shit!” barked Brian.

“He’s right! It’s not shit!” said Roger sharply. “It’s _cheesy!_ ”

John choked on his coffee, just barely squeaking out laugh through his coughs. Brian muttered something about not having to deal with their irritations and stormed off from the bar without another word. Freddie rolled his eyes but couldn’t cover the smile that spread across his face.

“No more teasing Brian or he’ll stop writing riffs,” chided Freddie.

“He makes it too easy.”

“Come on, come on, I want to knock the backing track out ASAP, we need to warm your voice up for the—”

“Operatic section, yes I know,” sighed Roger.

“You’d be a good opera singer,” said John looking Roger up and down. “You’ve got the features of a primadonna.”

Roger made some noise similar to a scoff and felt his cheeks flush. He looked form John to Freddie. He didn’t meet Freddie’s eyes for more than a few seconds but he saw the suspicion, the smugness it held.

“I’ll go talk Brian off his bad mood, please don’t make him even more prickly,” said John as he stood from the table. He didn’t bother pushing in his chair and meandered out to the door to follow Brian out to the studio.

“So,” said Freddie, “still not an issue?”

“I don’t go that way,” said Roger mostly into his coffee.

“Don’t go that way? I seem to recall you, circa ’71, coming into my bedroom piss drunk crying about how Jo was no match for John—”

“Piss drunk! I was piss drunk! I was confused and I was _wrong_ —”

“Weeping about how he’d slept with Veronica—”

Roger slammed a hand down on the counter. “Keep your voice down!”

Freddie sighed and leaned forward on the countertop. “I’m not trying to embarrass you—”

“I’m not embarrassed!” snapped Roger, his cheeks bright red.

“I’m just concerned you’re not being honest. With me or with yourself.”

“You’re one to talk,” said Roger. As soon as he said it he knew he’d crossed a line. Roger knew about Freddie, probably before Freddie ever did, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it. He was still technically with Mary after all. Bringing it up to win a petty argument was lower than he wanted to go.

Freddie only clenched his jaw in the tense silence that followed.

“Fred—” began Roger. He was cut off by Freddie throwing his coffee in his face. Freddie took his coffee black so there was no milk to cool it down by much before it splashed across his face.

“Fuck!” Roger wiped his face in a frenzy to stop the burning. Freddie said nothing, just stared. Roger could only look him in the eyes for a brief moment. The coffee stung but he knew on some level he deserved it. Freddie slammed his empty mug down before storming out of the kitchen.

Roger doused a flannel in cold water and let it rest on his face. The quick glimpse in the mirror he caught of himself looked sunburnt which would be easy enough to explain away. He meandered into the studio after Freddie, tail between his legs, and jumped right in with the backbeat of the drums. Freddie didn’t once look at him through the glass of the booth. Roger didn’t blame him. Freddie’s demo vocals played in his ear while he drummed the beat.

They played through it about five times before Freddie announced over the mic that they got the take and it was his turn to take a stab at the vocals. It was Brian’s baby, he was the one really coaching Freddie through it and trying to communicate his vision for the song. Roger and John sat behind him, listening to the vocals. John humming the bass line while Roger tapped his feet in time to the bass drum.

The song was put on hold for lunch. Freddie and Brian critiqued each other the entire time, trying to fine tune each other’s performances, neither really listening to the other anymore.

“Did you hear me slip up during the bridge?” said John, breaking the monotony of Brian and Freddie’s voices. “It was a little wobble but I don’t know if it’s really noticeable at all.”

“I didn’t notice it,” said Roger. “You sure you even slipped? Since when do you play any less than perfect?”

John broke into a wide grin. Roger did the same.

“Get a room,” groaned Brian. Roger’s laughing petered out quick. John’s lingered, as if to laugh it off but the tension was already in the room. “We’ll listen to it back but I doubt we’ll need to rerecord if none of us noticed it.”

“You’re probably right,” said John. “You’ll three be doing the backing vocals after this right?”

“Right,” said Brian, mostly into his sandwich. “Planning your escape?”

“Planning to work on the little…thing I’ve got.”

“Ah yes!” Freddie clasped his hands together with a flourish. “Deaky’s brand new song. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got for us, Darling.”

“I may still scrap it entirely so—”

“I’m sure it’s lovely! We’ll give you room to work on it,” Freddie clapped Roger and Brian’s shoulders, “Come on boys, I want these vocals knocked out by today.”

“Oh sure, since it’s not your song let’s just rush right through it,” spat Brian. Roger rolled his eyes and made his way to the recording studio. Brian and Freddie were still bickering when they meandered in. Roger motioned for the engineer to start the playback of Freddie’s vocals, hoping they’d stop whinging if they were being recorded. And they did. They shut up long enough to add in the backing vocals.

Of course, during the backing vocal recording, Freddie noticed a glitch in his own main vocals and demanded he rerecord them. Roger couldn’t hear what mistake Freddie was so hung up on, and if Brian couldn’t he was doing a damn good job of pretending. Freddie did take after take that Roger was certain were all the same. But eventually Freddie ‘hit it’ and they were allowed to move on. By then it was time for the engineers to go home.

The three of them left in the booth thanked them for putting up with their nonsense all day and promised they’d lock up on their way out.

“I’m off,” said Brian.

“To where? We going out somewhere finally?” said Roger.

“Oh…I suppose we could but I had a song I was working on that I thought I might…” Brian’s voice trailed off.

“Just go.” Roger waved him away and heard him scurry out. Once the door closed behind Brian, Roger turn to look at Freddie who was pushing the dials on the sound board with no real direction. He owed him an apology. Though Freddie owed him one as well. Roger couldn’t be sure if they were going to just call it even and not bring it up again or if Freddie was going to dwell on this for years. “Freddie—”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Freddie. “Not for throwing the drink. But for throwing a hot drink. You deserved the drink not the burns.”

“ ’S alright.” Roger relaxed into his chair. “I’m sorry too.”

“I should hope so,” said Freddie, still not looking up. “But thank you…It’s a sore subject but you know…” He paused his pointless fiddling with the soundboard to look at Roger finally. “We should be united in this and not…poking fun or putting the other down.”

“Well…not united, Fred. I’m not like that.”

“So…you never had feelings for John.”

“I didn’t say _that_ ,” muttered Roger.

Freddie gestured wildly at nothing. “Well then we are united, Rog. That’s the dictionary definition of it.”

“Not really. I’ve only felt like that for John, otherwise it’s strictly women—and even then I don’t think it was ever as serious as actual _feelings_ for John,” added Roger hurriedly. He wasn’t sure why he bothered with pretending around Freddie. Freddie saw him at his lowest, at his most heartsick, he knew.

“One is enough.”

“It’s barely one, one half—one quarter more like, barely anything at all.”

“Well,” Freddie shrugged, “if it ever became a full _one_ , I would be here. I’m here now.”

“And you know I’m here for all your ones—”

Freddie waved his hand. “I know that, of course I know that. I just worry that me not approving of you and your dick destroying the band is coming across as me not being willing to help.”

“You think my dick’s powerful enough to _destroy_ the entire band?”

“Oh don’t flatter yourself, we’re already on thin ice here. If Brian writes one more fucking song about why life’s a dreary desolate wasteland of sadness we’re through.”

“You’re writing a six minute opera.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” Freddie moved more buttons, Roger knew he had no idea what he was doing aside from the volume controls. “What about you, where’s our next Tenement Funster?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Roger. “I’ve got bits and pieces of beats and tunes but nothing concrete.”

“Whatever you write, don’t make it dreary. My song’s sucking up our allotment for dreariness this album, only upbeat dance numbers from you.”

Roger scoffed at the very idea of writing dance music. But he’d never been one to write anything as depressing as either Freddie or Brian anyway. The real mystery was John whose only song was a comedy. His sequel could be _anything_ at all.

The two of them stayed cooped in the studio for an hour, maybe two, talking about Freddie’s ideas for his other songs on the album. Roger sang him the bits and pieces of melodies he had in his head, hoping to get a response but nothing jumped out at Freddie, the same way nothing had jumped out at him. Freddie assured him he’d get somewhere eventually he just needed a bit more time.

Freddie said something about heading in to work on the lyrics for the ballad he was dumping on Brian. Roger called a goodnight out after him before he settled back down on the soundboards and let his upper body crush the buttons underneath him.

He listened to the comfortable silence of the room, the low buzz from all the electricity in the room. He might’ve fallen asleep there had he not heard the piano. With his head down on the desk he was certain it was Freddie come back to sort out the melody of his ballad. But the piano playing was distinctly not Freddie. Not metronomic enough, not dramatic enough. Freddie wouldn’t be caught dead playing like that. Roger lifted himself off the table to peer through the glass at the piano in the back corner.

There sat John. He looked focused as ever. The way he always looked when he was writing music, though usually he was only writing a bass line. Roger watched for a moment, maybe two, and when he was sure John wasn’t going to see him in his trance, he hobbled out of the booth.

When Roger’s boot heel hit hardwood instead of carpet, John looked up.

“Where’ve you been?” said John as his eyes returned to the piano keys.

“I was in the booth, didn’t you see me?”

“Oh…” John cocked his head. “I came in in a hurry, I suppose I didn’t look.”

Roger took a few more steps to lean on the piano. “So…Is this the song.”

John’s cheeks pinked up and he failed to stop the smile that broke out across his face. “It is…Please don’t ask me to play it—I haven’t even nailed down the last verse.”

“Oh, go on, Deacon. It’s just us, let me hear what you’ve got,” urged Roger.

“I can’t sing,” said John with a shy laugh.

“I don’t mind.” Roger sat on the limited available space of the piano bench. “Go on, I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

John looked at him for a strangely prolonged moment. A moment in which Roger was sure, sure he was being looked at. But, he knew his mind had played tricks on him before. John turned his attention back to the keys and sighed.

“It goes like… _Oooh you make me live_ ,” began John, talking more than singing as his fingers pressed the keys into the piano. “And then these lines right here.” He pointed to the lyrics sheet, that read, 'whatever this world can give to me, it's you you're all I see'. Roger couldn't help the flush of nerves or anxiety or excitement he got reading those words, almost like they were meant for him.

“And then more ‘Ooh you make me live’s,” added John awkwardly as his fingers danced over the keys, humming the tune under his breath.

“You’re giving Freddie a run for his money,” teased Roger. John flashed him an embarrassed smile and continued.

“The next verse is…another ‘ _Ooh_ ’ then a line about being my best friend.” He hummed the next few lines awkwardly, trying to cover up any proof he even had a voice. “Then it says, ‘I want you to know that my feelings are true, I really love you’. Then Freddie’ll add a really punchy ‘Ooh’ and then ‘ _you’re my best friend_ ’. It’s sappy, I know but it’s…”

John’s voice trailed off and when it did he turned to meet Roger’s eyes, to gauge his reaction. And that was the final straw for Roger. The lyrics, his sweet little voice that he tried to hide, his sheepish and humble presentation, it overcame him and before he could think it all the way through his lips were pressed to John’s. John made a small noise in response but he softened. And when Roger pushed it further, he opened his mouth.When Roger ran his tongue against John’s, he hummed. When Roger ran his hands up John’s back and pulled him in he sighed into Roger’s mouth. Roger could've stayed like that forever. Tasting John, feeling him, taking him all in and for that moment he knew John could've stayed that way too. But years of pent up need got the better of him and his hands and thoughts drifted south on John's lithe body.  
  
One hand stayed on John's lower back, while the other inched its way up his thigh. Kneading and massaging as he went just to hear John try to quiet his moaning. Roger pulled away for a brief moment and, through heavily lidded eyes, looked John up and down. His cheeks were bright red, his eyes wide as saucers, but his hands still holding on to Roger. So Roger reached for his belt.

“Breathe, Deaks,” teased Roger as he unbuttoned his trousers.

“Right here?” whispered John in response.

“We’re alone, no one’s coming.”

“Kiss me again,” breathed John, just barely audible. Roger didn’t have to be told twice. John’s hand twisted in Roger’s hair a little tighter when he freed John’s cock and stroked him slow and shaky. He’d imagined this enough and yet it all felt new and intimidating. But he knew what he liked on himself and put it to good use on John. When Roger sped up, John buried his face in Roger’s neck and tried to quiet his panting, his whining. That only spurred Roger on to make him louder, make him fall apart in his hand.

“I’m close,” said John, his voice choked and strained. Roger hummed, almost growled, and sped up for him. John clawed at his back and muttered a long string of Roger’s name, over and over and over until he spilled over Roger’s hand. John stayed pressed to Roger, putting too much of his weight on him and trying to catch his breath while Roger made him shiver with a few extra strokes of his hand. Roger pressed kisses to John’s ear and waited until John sat up to move.

When he finally did, Roger assessed the damage between them.

“Jesus, when’s the last time you came,” teased Roger. His hand was covered, and his trousers had a few stray stains he’d have to wash out before they did their laundry.

“Sorry, yeah it’s…Sorry, I didn’t mean to get it on your clothes—” said John, his voice wobbling through his words. Roger put his clean hand through John’s hair, hoping to quiet the embarrassment building up in him. John looked over at him, his face still bright red. Roger could think of nothing else to do than to press a kiss to his sweaty forehead before meeting their lips again. Softer this time, gentler and comforting.

“I really like your song,” mumbled Roger, millimeters from John’s lips.

“Thanks,” squeaked John before Roger kissed him again, a bit more desperate than before. Without thinking, he brought his other hand to rake through John’s hair, and stopped when he felt the sticky resistance.

“Oh,” said Roger, pulling away as he pulled his hand out of John’s hair. “I’m sorry—I forgot—”

“It’s okay,” said John, though it clearly wasn’t okay. “It’ll wash out of my hair easier than it’ll wash out of your trousers.”

“Well I’ve got more experience washing cum out of clothes than hair,” laughed Roger. John laughed too, finally relaxing a little.

“I uh…guess I should go shower,” said John. “Won’t be able to focus on the song like this.”

“Alright,” said Roger. He leaned forward for one last kiss, but met the corner of John’s mouth just as he was standing up. He righted his clothes as quickly as he could and was walking away before he’d done his fly up.

“G’night Rog!” he called over his shoulder, never looking back.

“Night—” the door slammed behind John before Roger finished the thought. Roger sat still for a moment. Thinking over what he’d done, wondering what happened really. Wondering how John felt about it, wondering how he felt about it, and wondering where he should clean up. He wandered through the halls and into the first bathroom to scrub his hands and the few spots on his trousers. Carefully avoiding the mirror as he did so.

His bed, alone, sounded like heaven right then. Turning his brain completely off for a few hours was just what he needed. He headed straight for the steps up to his and Freddie’s rooms. Freddie was definitely still awake, the man never slept, but Roger was in no mood to chat. Not with him, not with anyone. So he locked his door, ripped his boots off and fell into his bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Sorry! I took so long I know I'm sorry! I hope you keep reading anyway, and I'm sorry! Please comment if you like it :)

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” screamed Freddie. Roger opened his eyes and saw Freddie’s legs.

“Why?” groaned Roger.

“Because! I’ve got an idea!” said Freddie much too loudly.

“Have it later,” mumbled Roger as he closed his eyes.

“Up up up!” Freddie shoved him and rolled him over, poking and prodding and making sure he didn’t fall back asleep until eventually Roger relented and sat up.

“What’s the fucking idea!”

“It’s all nebulous, Rog, hurry!” Freddie rushed out of the room and Roger heard him running down the steps, taking them two at a time. Roger stared at the wall and let the memories from the night before distract him from the menial task of getting ready. It was awkward at the end, John rushed out so quickly. But if it wasn’t awkward it wasn’t John, even in his fantasies. So he focused on how John’s lips felt against his, how his tongue felt in his mouth, how his hand felt on his cock and his next immediate thought was when could he do it again.

He didn’t bother getting ready past new clothes and combing his hair. He scurried down the steps, pouring himself coffee on the way out to the studio. Freddie was sat on the floor next to Brian’s amp, staring into space with a matching mug of coffee in his hand.

“Well what’s your great idea? I’ve never once been up this early in my life so it better be good,” said Roger.

“I lost it,” sighed Freddie.

“You lost it?” laughed Roger, holding a hand out for Freddie to stand with. Freddie took it and hoisted himself up.

“Lost it.”

“What was it?”

“Don’t know anymore, it’s gone,” said Freddie. He headed into the booth. Roger followed a step or two behind him. Being the creative genius that he was, Freddie often had bouts of strangeness like these where ideas came and went faster than he could get them out. Roger took the chair next to Freddie and watched him drum his fingers on the sound board. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”

“If it’s worth it, it’ll come back,” said Roger, mindlessly drumming his fingers in beat with Freddie. Freddie moped in silence for a bit, trying to coax the brilliant idea back to the forefront of his mind while Roger slowly woke up bit by bit with each sip of coffee.

“Hm,” said Freddie under his breath, his fingers paused their drumming.

“Came back?”

“No, but look.” He reached over the sound boards up to where the engineers left pencils, tacks, pens, and where Roger often left his scraps of songs. “Thimbles.”

“Thimbles,” repeated Roger.

“What do they need thimbles for? These sharp buttons?” Freddie stifled a laugh as he put three of them one hand and resumed his drumming.

“Oh god—Put another on one or take on off, I can’t stand just three,” whined Roger, dramatically covering his ears.

“Hush,” said Freddie as he chucked a thimble at Roger. His fingers still drumming.

“You know that sort of sounds like tap shoes,” said Roger. Freddie held his breath to listen before agreeing. “I think—”

“I’ve got an idea!” finished Freddie.

~~~

“HIGHER!” screamed Freddie. Roger squealed as high as he could and watched Freddie dance in the booth when he did. “PERFECT! You were born to kazoo!”

“I CAN GO HIGHER!” replied Roger. The fourth cup of coffee getting to him a bit but mostly it was the excitement and _fun_ he always felt when writing with Freddie. A few more tries of the fake brass section Roger created and Freddie was ready to send the whole album into the label. They had no lyrics yet, just a few lines here and there and a lot of ‘la’s. But he and Freddie stood at the microphone and worked out the tune together.

“ _Feel so romantic_ … la la la,” began Freddie.

“ _Can we do it again sometime_ ,” finished Roger.

“Oh you should put some backing into it to echo that,” said Freddie.

“We have to finish the lyrics first,” laughed Roger.

“What about the la la _la la… in the rain_ ,” said Freddie.

“Feels so romantic in the rain?”

“No, new verse, new verse… Although.”

“ _Feels so romantic, in the rain_ ,” said Roger just barely singing it for Freddie.

“No! I’ve got it! _I feel like dancing!_ ”

“ _In the rain!_ ”

“ _In the rain!_ ”

“ _In the rain!_ ”

“What’s _in the rain?_ ” came a voice from over the booth mic. Roger and Freddie turned to see John walking in with the engineer. “And since when are you two up this early.”

“We’ve been up for hours, darling! We’ve got the most fun little song, very camp and cod, Brian’s sure to hate it!” laughed Freddie with a hand on Roger’s shoulder.

“Morning, Deaks,” said Roger into the mic, unable to hide the grin on his face that started the moment he saw John’s face.

“Mhm,” said John. Roger knew he made some kind of noise at the sound of that short, terse answer but no one heard it. “I’ve almost finished the last verse to my song, Fred, if you want to give it a go. Don’t mean to interrupt or anything.”

“We need to work on our lyrics anyway, we can pin this for later,” said Freddie.

“Yeah, it’s—” began Roger.

“Look over the lyrics. I need more coffee,” said John.

John wasn’t one for mornings, none of them were, and they could all be short with each other before noon but something felt off with his mood. John meandered out of the booth, lyrics in hand, his eyes trained on Freddie and Freddie alone as he handed them over.

“You’re My Best Friend,” said Freddie, eyes scanning the words John scrawled out. “Sounds very sweet.”

“It is,” replied Roger.

“ _You’ve_ heard it? Before _me_?” said Freddie.

“I heard a snippet of John working the tune out last night but he never finished it,” said Roger with a wink to John.

“I-I’ll be back I need more coffee,” said John, already headed toward the door.

Freddie waited until the door slammed behind John to speak. “Is he alright?”

“Must just be tired, or nervous about his new song,” said Roger with a shrug.

John never returned to guide Freddie through his song. Roger couldn’t quite remember the tune and playing the chords straight on the piano didn’t help a bit except to get Freddie accustomed to where he would be singing for the final cut. John’s absence was a mystery, but not one that Freddie wanted to stop and solve. After it became clear John wasn’t returning he had the engineer play back the recordings they’d done that morning of Roger’s kazooing and Freddie’s oboe-ing.

He scribbling in new lyrics and Roger did the same, snatching the paper from each other whenever inspiration struck until eventually they had an entire song and it was only noon.

“ _It’s so fashionable_ ,” sang Freddie.

“And then our little band kicks in,” said Roger over the booth microphone.

“I don’t like take, roll it back.”

Roger sighed deep and pressed the button in to talk. “ _One_ more and then I’m cutting you off.”

“Two more.”

The door behind Roger swung open, loud and creaky and filled with a lanky mess of curls that, in an hour or so, would resemble Brian.

“You’re up early,” said Roger. Though it sounded sarcastic, it wasn’t off base. Brian waking up before noon was a miracle.

“You’re up even earlier,” croaked Brian. His voice still hanging on to the extra depth of sleep. “Deaky said you’ve got a new song?”

“You’ll hate it. Fred and I came up with it on the spot this morning.”

“Made up on the spot?” Brian combed his hair back with hands, more to comfort himself than to fix it. “Well what masterpiece _wasn’t_ made up on the spot?”

“I never said masterpiece. It’s _fun_.”

“What’s he saying?” said Freddie on the other side of the glass. Brian waved to him.

“He’s doubting our ability to improvise,” said Roger into the mic. “I’ll run what we’ve got so far, see what he says.”

“If he’s got any sense, he’ll love it.”

“I can hear you,” laughed Brian. Though Freddie couldn’t hear him. Roger queued up what they had so far which was their midsection orchestra and Freddie’s main vocals. For obvious reasons it felt bare and silent but Brian still listened with great care. He kept his pensive face until the tape rolled over to nothing and stopped. “You’re right.”

“What?”

“I do hate it,” said Brian, a sleepy smirk creeping on his face.

“Oh fuck off.” Roger pressed the mic button. “Fred, he says he’s quitting the band if we put this one on the album.”

“As if anyone would be willing to work with a guitarist so clearly incapable of recognising genius.” Freddie hung his headphones on the microphone and meandered his way back to the booth.

“You said Deaky told you we made a new song?” said Roger. Freddie opened the door behind Brian and sidled his way past him and onto the couch.

“Mhm. Why? Was it a secret?” laughed Brian.

“No, no, just haven’t see ‘im all day. Except for this morning.”

“He gave me the lyrics for his song and fucked off back in the main house,” said Freddie. Roger turned to see him getting awfully comfortable in the cushions.

“Maybe he didn’t want to stay here and listen to you two birds squawking.”

“Freddie,” Roger rolled his chair back and shook one of his ankles, “Freddie don’t fall asleep we’re not done.”

“I’m not sleeping,” said Freddie with his eyes closed.

“While he’s taking a nap I’ve want to test something with you,” said Brian.

“He’s not taking a nap!” said Roger, shaking Freddie’s leg harder.

“Let him rest, we’ve got work to do on a real song,” teased Brian. Freddie rolled over, pressing his face into the cushions.

“Alright,” sighed Roger, “what’s the song.”

“The space once I told you about—well technically time dilat—”

“I don’t care _that_ much, Bri,” said Roger. Brian rolled his eyes dramatically but his smile gave him away.

“How high can you go exactly?”

“How high do you need?”

~~~

“Higher?” asked Brian through the booth mic. They were rounding the corner on four o’clock his voice was tuckered out but he felt like he’d almost nailed what Brian was trying to do.

“I need a rest,” croaked Roger. Brian had the main tune worked out, not all the details and kinks but the main tune he and Freddie had already workshopped. They still had no concrete ideas for the backing vocals, and no real grasp on what the rhythm section would do other than “keeping it minimal” as Brian said over and over.

Brian wasn’t even sure what he wanted for the bridge, he just wanted to hear what Roger had to offer.

“I haven’t worn you out entirely have I?”

Roger shook his head and let the warm tea he sipped linger at the back of his tired throat.

“I’m fine, don’t think you’ll be getting anymore high notes out of me though.”

“That’s fine, I think I’ve got a better idea of what I want.”

“Still nothing concrete?”

Brian shrugged.

“I’ve got some ideas,” said Freddie behind Brian, the booth mic just barely picking him up. He sat still for a moment before shoved Brian to the side to get closer to the mic. “Rog, for the drums, what about…just the kick or just—“

“I was thinking just the kick to the beat,” said Roger. “I’ll have to hear Brian’s final guitar recording to know for sure.”

“What about the bass?” said Freddie.

“I’m not the bassist.”

“Where is the bassist anyway?” said Brian, his voice getting lost in the overhead speakers. “I haven’t seen John since this morning.”

“Don’t know,” said Freddie, a look of concern or confusion on his face. “Brian go fetch him we need him on our little _thing_.”

“Oh God, don’t give that song anymore work, it’s not going on the album,” said Brian with no real conviction.

“ _I’ll_ go get him,” said Roger into the mic, dropping his headphones before anyone could protest. He wandered to the main house, trying not to run and come off to eager. He swung the door open and dragged his boots across the entrance mat before calling John’s name in the big, echoey house.

“Deaks! Deaks! You’re needed in the studio!” said Roger in as authoritative a voice as he could muster. “Deaks!”

“Coming!” called John from what Roger could only guess was the backroom where the pool table was set up. A quick game of pool with John sounded better than another hour of Freddie and Brian insisting he could hit a C7. He hurried to meet him and burst through the door with a little too much enthusiasm but he caught John before he’d packed up. “Is it that urgent?”

“No, I,” Roger stammered, “I just wanted to play pool.”

“You didn’t have to run, I would’ve waited,” said John a grin spread across his face. Roger smiled back and let the door close behind him. A quick glance at the table. The felt had only stripes left.

“How long’ve you been playing?” said Roger, trying to spy John’s next shot for the eight ball.

“Only about thirty minutes,” said John, “I promise I do real work, I just needed a break for a bit.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of slacking,” said Roger. “I just meant…you seem really good at pool today.”

“Oh,” said John. “Oh, I’m not I’m—I’m awful still really. I’ve been knocking them into the pockets when I get ‘close enough’.”

“I thought so,” laughed Roger. “Go on, re-rack, I’ll kick your arse.”

The two of them circled the table, scooping up the balls and letting them roll on the felt until John captured them in the rack while Roger chalked his cue.

“You should break,” said John.

“If you insist,” said Roger, with false humility that was made to be seen through. He broke and sank the seven.

“So I’m stripes,” said John. “I think stripes are lucky, I think that’s why you won last time.”

“If you say so.”

As Roger sunk ball after ball and John occasionally got a stray one in, he wondered if their conversation would ever stray from the small talk to elephant in the room. They hadn’t seen him for hours and that was because of one very glaringly obvious reason that neither of them had broached yet.

“Corner pocket,” said Roger, calling the eight ball.

“Did you tell Freddie,” blurted out John, effectively ruining Roger’s shot. Roger swore he heard him laugh as he the cue marked the felt and missed the ball entirely.

“You did that on purpose!” groaned Roger.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” said John with a shrug. “But…did you?”

“No,” said Roger, “didn’t think you’d want that.”

“You were right.”

“So…Should we…” said Roger, vaguely gesturing between the two of them.

“Talk about it?” offered John, Roger nodded. “No…I don’t think so. What’s there to say?”

Roger looked up at him from across the table, trying to figure out what that meant. But, as per usual, John was unreadable. “I guess there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Are you going to keep being strange around me?” asked John, lining up his shot.

“Me? You’re the one acting all skittish. You said good morning and completely bailed for hours,” said Roger with a laugh that just barely hid his real aggravation.

“I know…I just got the feeling Freddie was seeing right through me and…I didn’t want to hang around if he knew,” said John.

“Sure but…you’ve been gone all day, are you sure nothing’s—” began Roger but John made it clear he wasn’t listening when he made his shot. He wound back and threaded the cue between two balls to sink once across the table. “Oh shit—maybe you did learn something from me, that was a tough shot,” said Roger, resting on his cue.

“Lucky, I guess,” said John. He turned to meet Roger’s eyes. “So we’re okay?”

“If you’re fine, so am I,” said Roger with a half hearted shrug.

“Good. I guess…we really ought pry Bri and Fred apart before their argue themselves to death.”

“Oh that’s right! I came in here to get you to do the bass line for our new song—and Brian’s but mostly mine and Freddie’s.”

“God you’re not going to make me choose sides are you?”

~~~

Roger walked with him back to the studio where Freddie chided him for taking far too long. John eventually cut in and forced them all to get down to actual work. Roger wanted nothing to do with actual work and got comfortable on the couch in the booth while John plucked out possibilities for his and Freddie’s song. They fiddled with Freddie and Roger’s song a bit but without a concrete instrumental melody there wasn’t much John could add.

Roger joined him on drums for awhile while Freddie played their jaunt on piano, trying to really solidify what they wanted it to sound like. All the while Brian was visibly trying to dislike it.

“It’s not rock and roll—it’s not even pop it’s—” began Brian.

“Camp!” finished Freddie.

“You can’t seriously expect this to go on the album though, can you?” said Brian.

“If you can put a country song on there, we can put a theatrical one,” spat Freddie.

“That’s different—”

“No it’s not!”

Brian pouted in the booth for a long while after that. In the meantime Roger and Freddie nailed down the piano and drums with John as a vocal supporter. After Freddie got Brian to admit their song was catchy, he was allowed to have them all help with his country song. Roger stomped the kick drum in time with his playing, mostly as filler but it sounded just right.

“I’m sick of this fucking song, lets play something else,” groaned Freddie.

“John, we never worked on your song,” said Roger.

“Oh…I don’t know the lyrics aren’t quite done—”

“Oh go on, Deacon! It’s great, you’ll both love it,” said Roger, mostly to Brian and Freddie.

“When did you hear it?” grumbled Brian.

“I caught him practicing last night,” said Roger with a wink in John’s direction. “Go on, go one, play it.”

The sound engineers headed home a few hours before which was perfect. There was nothing John hated more than an audience. The performance he gave the three of them was very much rushed and made to cover up his uneven voice. A voice they were all more than used to at this point but John still felt very self conscious trying to sing. He made it through the whole thing though, humming his way through the few stray lines with missing lyrics.

“I love it, Deaky! I absolutely love it!” screamed Freddie. “I’ve barely even got notes! It’s wonderful!”

“It is quite good,” added Brian.

“I told you so,” added Roger smugly.

“Well…thank you,” said John sheepishly. Praise, especially from Freddie, was often more than he could take. Roger understood that. Freddie fawning over one of his songs would also have him at a loss for words. “It’s not on the level of your songs.”

“Of course it is! It’s on the album!” said Freddie.

“We still have to see how it sounds with the actual vocal and—”

“It’s _on the album_ ,” said Freddie, stronger this time.

“If you say so,” said John with a big happy grin on his face. He was absolutely beaming and Roger couldn’t help beam back.

“Alright, who wants dinner?” said Freddie.

“Me,” said all three of them in unison.

“Excellent, Brian what are you cooking?”

~~~

Brian went through their pantry and their fridge and found they had enough ingredients for pasta with most of the sauce. He and Roger put it together for the four of them. Roger could see Freddie’s eyes starting to blink a bit slower as the night got longer. Roger wasn’t doing much better himself, their day had started so insufferably early. They ate dinner with the radio piping in a late night show that was mostly, if not entirely on the subject of cattle. Not interesting but not boring enough to turn off.

With dinner over and the four of them sufficiently tired, they made tea. Well Roger made himself tea and had to reheat the kettle for everyone else. John took his in the sitting room by the kitchen while Freddie and Brian sat on the barstools and went over the next day’s schedule. Having such a productive day, they were desperately trying to keep the streak going. They made him promise to wake up early and work out the drums on Freddie’s big song. Roger nodded and listened and agreed to more than he wanted to all because his focus was on John, across the room with his nose in some book.

“Alright, I’m off to bed, and by bed I mean drinking and hoping I can figure the lyrics for this fucking song. Bright and early,” said Freddie, pointing to Roger, then to Brian, “that goes for you too.”

“Why don’t we just stay up later?” offered Brian.

“You’re so lazy.” Freddie stood and thumped the back of Brian’s head on his way out and up the steps.

“I’m not lazy,” called Brian with no real care.

“You are lazy,” said Roger, mostly into his tea.

“You’re one to talk. You were napping anytime we left you alone in that booth.”

“I was tired, Freddie really took it out of me waking me up so early.”

“Well now you won’t be able to sleep tonight. You’ve started a horrible cycle.”

“You’ve never seen the sun before noon, I wouldn’t be so quick to throw stones.”

Brian could only laugh. “Alright, we’re both lazy.”

“Much better.”

Brian scooted his chair away from the bar and dumped the tea he had left down the sink.

“Going to bed already,” said Roger, not totally sure of what time it was.

“No, I just need to work out the guitar for my ‘space song’ as you call it. Hard to do that with anyone in the room.”

“Oh because you’re so bashful and humble about your playing.” Roger oversold the sarcasm knowing Brian was wont to ignore it.

“ _Goodnight_ ,” said Brian half laughing half terse. Roger watched him wander out and his eyes went right back to John, comfortably reading and quietly humming.

It felt rude to interrupt him, He was so engrossed in whatever he was reading. But Roger wanted to talk to him. He didn’t know what about he just knew he wanted to get make the most of every minute he had alone with him. Besides all that, John had skimped out on practice until Roger beat him in pool. John wasn’t one to be absent from practice for no reason and Roger knew, deep down, the reason wasn’t that he was perfecting his song. If there was any tension left lingering, he wanted it gone.

He finished his tea with one last big gulp and set the cup in the sink. He unconsciously cracked his knuckles as he awkwardly walked to meet John on the couch. He fell back into the cushions with his usual flourish and only then did John look up from the book in his hands.

“So…” began Roger, suddenly wishing he’d thought of something to say before that moment, “Freddie and Brian liked the song.”

“Seemed to,” said John with a hint of grin. He closed the book and left it on the coffee table.

“It’s a great song Deaks.”

“I know how _you_ feel about it.” John’s cheeks pinked up. John was quiet, not shy, but in the moment he was both.

“Did you…like that?” said Roger, hoping it was obvious what he was referring to.

“In a way,” said John after some time. The words were ambiguous but his blushing, suddenly-shy face gave him away.

“You certainly seemed to like it,” teased Roger.

“I…” began John, his words getting lost somewhere, never coming out.

Roger scooted that little bit closer to him. “You alright?”

“I’m fine. Are…you alright?”

Roger stretched an arm out to run through John’s hair and nodded. “I’m fine.”

“That’s good,” mumbled John, his eyes never leaving Roger’s.

“I don’t think they’re coming back down tonight,” whispered Roger.

“No, I don’t think so,” squeaked John in response. The way he withered in the spotlight was always so endearing to Roger, even more endearing now.

Roger moved slow, jumping at every creak he heard coming from the settling house, but once he was certain no one would surprise them he pressed a kiss to John’s lips. Light first, then again, deeper, then again with a hand gripping his hair, then a hand on his waist, then John’s hand wrapped around him desperately. John was the warmth he needed in that drafty old house and he clung to him for dear life.

“Please,” breathed John, “please do it again.”

“You want me to make you cum?” said Roger against his lips. John just hummed in response. Roger let John suck a few dark marks into his neck, along his collar bones, while he unfastened the buttons on John’s trousers. John bit down when Roger first stroked him, bit down and whined. “Fuck, it’s only been one night, Deaks, you’re already so—”

“Please, please,” whimpered John. Desperate for anything Roger would give him. So he twisted his wrist and worked John’s aching cock for him. John buried his face in Roger’s chest, clinging to whatever he could reach. Roger could tell when he was getting closer by how much John’s grip on his bicep hurt.

“Tell me when you’re close.”

“Now, now, I’m close now,” said John, his voice strained and tired.

“Lie back.”

John did as he was told, though he clung to Roger as long as he could. As he whined and laid back, Roger shifted between his legs, his thighs pressed against Roger’s hips.

“How close are you?” murmured Roger.

“Close, really close,” whined John into his bicep.

“Can I try something?” Roger’s thumb traced the head of John’s cock, slowly him down just enough.

“Try what?” said John, just barely working up the energy to open his eyes.

“My mouth.” Roger could feel himself get redder. John just nodded. It was an awkward movement for him to scoot back enough to give himself room. He laughed at himself once or twice but John was too far gone to make any noise other than a moan. “You know…staring down the barrel of it…”

“What?” whined John. He needed to cum, Roger knew he’d dragged it out too long already. So he swallowed his nerves and wrapped his lips around his cock. He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t expected it to be so heavy against his tongue.

He could only take about an inch and a half. He’d never done it before and couldn’t say he ever expected he’s find himself needing that skill. But that, paired with his hand, was enough for John. At least from what Roger saw. His hips bucked and his hands clawed so deep into the couch Roger thought he might rip the upholstery.

Just as soon as he’d started, it ended. John stopped clutching the couch and started gripping Roger’s hair. He let out soft, choking moans begging to cum. Roger pumped his hand faster, bobbed his head faster, though he couldn’t imagine it was making much of a difference. But he knew he was on the right track when John’s thighs closed around him. That was his warning for what was to follow.

“God, Rog—don’t fucking stop,” said John, keeping his voice as low as he could. “I’m—”

John’s words got lost in his throat when he came down Roger’s. Roger back away as soon as he felt it in his mouth. It wasn’t the texture, not even the taste, it was the surprise that had him gagging. Though the taste certainly wasn’t helping that.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” muttered John.

Roger shook his head, dismissing the apology, and caught his breath. He leaned back down to give his cock one last tentative lick which had John shaking. It wasn’t the best blowjob, that was for certain, but John had still come apart for him and that inflated Roger’s ego more than anything. He pressed kisses on John’s exposed hips before moving up to his neck and jaw, then his lips. He paused there, unsure if John would want the taste himself on Roger’s tongue. He lingered a bit too long, waited too long and thought, maybe the moment passed. But John wrapped his arms around Roger’s neck and pulled him down.

John held nothing back, and Roger fell into it. John’s legs stayed linked haphazardly around his hips. Roger couldn’t resist grinding down against him. There was a bit of relief from the aching in that moment but he was quick to raise his hips when John winced against his cheek.

“Sorry,” whispered Roger.

“No, I’m just sensitive still,” said John in his ear.

Roger held his breath. Trying to figure out the best way to phrase what he wanted. “I wanna cum, Deaks,” groaned Roger. Not the most poetic thing he could’ve said but Roger heard John’s breath hitch at the sound of it.

John’s heels dug into his lower back and pulled Roger’s hips down against him. Roger pulled away just enough to watch John’s face when he thrust against him. He fantasised similar scenarios before but he’d never correctly predicted how gorgeous John looked when he was trying to be quiet.

“Fuck let me get,” began Roger, trying to unbuckle his belt with one hand, the other just barely keeping his weight off John.

“Let me.” John’s hand covered his.

Roger grinned and pressed a kiss to John’s jaw. John’s hands shook as they fiddled with the buckled but he got it undone, and got Roger’s fly open and at that point, Roger shooed his hands away and ground down against him. John was already a little breathless at how forcefully Roger was grinding and rutting against him. Roger couldn’t get enough of those sweet squeaks and covered up whimpers when he brushed against his sensitive cock.

There was a lot Roger might’ve changed, a lot that didn’t match with his fantasies. He wanted to stop and fully free his cock, wanted to feel it against John’s, he wanted a more comfortable couch, he wanted a bit more light, he wanted less of an echo in the room, he wanted to be inside him. But when it came down to it, the sloppy thrusting off his half clothed cock against John, John’s arms around him, his moans when Roger left kisses along his neck, that was all enough to satisfy every all of the longing desire built up inside of him.

“John, John,” grunted Roger, trying to sound composed and failing.

“Cum, Rog, cum for me.” John spoke right in his ear, his voice soft and low. Roger bit into John’s shoulder and pushed himself over the edge. He muttered a series of curses mixed with John’s name as he came down. John stroked his hair in the meantime, and ran his finger tips across his back. Roger stayed like that for a while, resting in John’s arms and trying to catch his breath. And when he felt he could, he propped himself up enough to look at John. “Good?”

“Perfect.” Roger caught his lips in another kiss, more chaste but just as intense. Roger broke out in a smile and peppered kisses across John’s jaw and cheeks that had him suppressing laughs, trying still to be quiet. “Fuck I’m glad you wrote that song or we’d never have…”

“Yeah,” said John with no real emotion either way.

“Yeah,” repeated Roger. “We ought wash these clothes before anyone sees them.”

“Oh God, that would be humiliating,” laughed John as he sat, forcing Roger to do the same.

“Humiliating’s a strong word,” added Roger awkwardly. Either John’ didn’t hear or he didn’t care to respond. He righted his clothes and stood, only barely waiting for Roger to follow him to their little laundry room. Roger’s trousers from the night before were still in there, drying after he’d spot cleaned them. Their outfits that night would need much more than a spot cleaning.

They were down to pants and scrubbing their trousers in the sink.

“Sorry, I really made a mess,” said Roger, a bit embarrassed.

“We both did,” said John. “It’s both of our faults.”

“Faults?” laughed Roger, hoping a laugh would diffuse the tension he felt in the room.

“You know what I mean.”

“I…don’t really.” Roger didn’t look up from the spots on his trousers he was scrubbing.

“You know, just that, we’re bound to get caught at this rate,” said John with a forced laugh.

“Get…Would it be so bad to ‘get caught’?” offered Roger with the same forced laugh.

“Of course it would. Brian and Freddie would never let us forget it. Same’s when we caught Brian trying to chat up that bird that turned out to be forty five. Never let him forget it do we?”

“Isn’t it different though?” the hope in Roger’s voice was pathetic. “That was just some…one night…mistake.”

“And…what do you think this is?” said John. His tone wasn’t accusatory or even leading. It was as if he genuinely didn’t know.

“I think…” began Roger, carefully pacing his words, “I think it’s…I guess I don’t really know.”

“Maybe…best not to try and work it out,” said John. He turned against the sink to face Roger and kicked Roger’s feet until he did the same. “Maybe we’re out here, alone and bored, and this is fun isn’t it? So maybe we leave it at that and worry about the details later?”

“I can live with that, I like that,” said Roger, taking a step into John.

“I like that too, I like you,” sighed John, unconsciously taking a half-step towards Roger.

Roger slide a hand down John’s side and let it rest on his hip, and tugged him in a little closer before mashing his lips against John’s. He ran a hand through John’s hair and tugged, earning him a stifled moan from the back of John’s throat. Roger couldn’t gauge how far he would’ve gone right there in the freezing little wash room with their cum-stained trousers in the sink. But he never got to find out.

The door creaked open. John shoved Roger off him at the first creak and Roger hoped to God that was quick enough not to look suspicious as Freddie walked in.

“Oh hello, you two. What…” he eyed their bare legs and torsos and their matching set of soaked trousers in the sink, “what’s going on?”

“I tried to make Roger some more of those breakfast sausages since Brian wouldn’t and I got the oil on us both, it just started popping out and burning us,” said John. Roger wondered how long John had such a propensity for convincing lies.

“Oh…well it looks awfully suggestive in here. Those oil burns on your necks really look like hickeys,” teased Freddie. “I’ve spilled the last of that wine I’d brought with me on these fucking sheets.” He tossed the sheets into the washbin. “I’ve no fucking clue how to get wine stains out and I’m not going to bother. Goodnight you two.”

“Goodnight, Fred!” said Roger and John in unison.

They held their breath, listening for Freddie’s bedroom door to close before they both sighed in relief.

“That was close,” said Roger, a bit giddy.

“Fuck, it really was,” said John, looking on the verge of a heart attack. “Right, the trousers are as clean as I can get them, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay, goodnight then,” said Roger, as John made his way to the door.

“Night,” replied John without turning back.

Roger stared at the mess of sheets and trousers in the washbin. His eyes not focusing on any one thing in particular for a long while before he meandered back up to his room. He tugged on more comfortable clothes after rinsing off and climbed into bed, the springs creaking and screaming underneath him.

This wasn’t how he thought it would feel when he finally got what he’d been fantasising about with John. There was so much missing. There wasn’t the bond, the deepened friendship and blossoming romance, he always thought he’d feel the second he and John crossed that line. If anything he felt more distant from him, more unable to tell what he was thinking and feeling. And above it all, he was still sleeping alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's been what? 48932 years since I last updated!! I'm sorry!! I had other obligations and this just had to come last! Hopefully I haven't lost everyone yet! I'll be posting the first chapter of a new fic tomorrow or the day after as a peace offering! Comment if you like <3

Roger woke up late the next day. He was never an early riser but even by his standards it was late. And even when he woke, he didn’t rise. Part of him wanted to just melt into the bed and never leave it. And though he’d never admit it, it was because he didn’t want to see John. Something about his words the night before didn’t sit right and he didn’t want to confront it. So he told himself he was getting ill. He’d worked himself to the bone with Freddie and he was so sick he couldn’t get up.

“Rog!” came Brian’s voice on the other side of the door, “if I’m up before you, you know you’ve got a problem. Go on.”

“Fuck off,” replied Roger as loud as his sleepy voice would allow.

“Down in five or Freddie’s getting the ice bucket.”

Roger groaned in response and heard Brian’s footsteps trail down the stairs. He knew Freddie would make good on the ice bucket, so Roger dragged himself out of bed and threw on the first things he saw. His face still had the indents of his sheets when he left his room and stumbled down the stairs.

“He lives!” said Brian somewhere in the kitchen. Roger rounded the corner and saw him pouring two mugs of coffee. “Here, have some, wake up.”

“Why’s it so urgent that I’m awake?” said Roger, wrapping two hands around the mug Brian handed him.

“John’s finished his new song, Freddie wants the beat on it by today.”

“Today?” Roger slid into one of the barstools and mumbled a small thank you when Brian served him two pieces of toast. “What’s his rush lately?”

“Honestly, I think he wants more time to work on that…thing of his. Either way we’re churning out songs, I like that. Wouldn’t kill us to be this productive all the time.”

“It would…and it is.”

“Well, it pays the bills.”

“It pays your bills,” spat Roger. “John and I don’t see nearly as much of the reward as the two of you—“

“Not this again.” Brian rolled his eyes and huffed out the door towards the studio. And though that was an argument Roger wanted to really sit down and hash out with Brian and Freddie, it was a relief that he didn’t have to do it right then and there. Too much was on his mind and the idea of breaking down their royalties was too tiring.

Roger took his time with his breakfast and coffee and poured himself a second mug before meandering out to the studio. He could heard the chords of John’s song being played on the piano inside which gave him a second wind. There was a lot up in the air, and it was hard to see where he stood in John’s mind. Although, the song did give him some small insight, and was some comfort to him even if John was as opaque as ever.

He pulled the door open and waved hello to the engineers in the booth before doing the same to John and Freddie, both crowded at the piano with Brian leant against the far wall.

“Took you long enough,” said Freddie, with love, always with love.

“I had a long night,” said Roger, his eyes flicking to John who said nothing but cleared his throat and shook his hands out.

“Deaky’s finished the lyrics, finished them last night, he’s nailed the tune down now all we need’s the beat,” said Freddie.

“And the guitar and the vocals and the bass,” said Brian.

“Hush,” chided Freddie. “Roger makes the beat, that’s all he needs to know.”

“Last night?” said Roger with a scoff, sidling up to John’s right. “How’d you have any time last night?”

“I wasn’t busy,” said John quickly.

Freddie clapped twice for their attention. “From the top, Deaks, Rog needs the full effect.”

“I’ve heard the song—”

“Not the whole way through you haven’t, now, hit it!”

Freddie nailed down the trills and undulations in his voice that he wanted, that John wanted. Freddie always took special care to get the right sound for them all and it showed in how controlled and precise his voice was in that moment just demoing John’s song.

“ _Ooh, you make me live_ ,” sang Freddie.

“And the finale!” teased Brian.

“ _I’m ha—ppy at home, you’re my best friend_ ,” sang Freddie.

There were lines after that Roger was sure of it but his focus drifted then and there. And he may have interrupted the song when he spoke but he didn’t care, “I’m happy at home?”

“Yeah…” said Freddie with a shrug.

“John?” said Roger.

“What?” replied John, finally meeting his eyes if only for one fleeting glance.

“You’re happy at home?”

“Yes,” said John. His voice had a sense of finality to it.

“I think it’s cute,” said Freddie with an innocent shrug. “A little ode to Veronica, a happy sort of upbeat song that’ll balance out all of the gloom and doom we’ve got going on already.“

“Veronica?! Since when’s this song about her?!” said Roger, eyes whipping between Freddie and John.

“It’s always been about her!” interrupted John. “This whole time the fucking song was about her, the _whole time!_ ”

“Why’s this an issue?” said Brian, sounding more irritated than anything.

“Oh sure it was!” said Roger.

“It was! I don’t know who else you think it could be about but it’s about my wife, who I love very much!”

“Why’s this an issue!” repeated Brian.

“Oh and what a loving devoted husband you are, out fucking whatever moves day in day out, but one fucking song paves that right over—”

“Roger!” said Freddie in booming voice that shut them both up if only for a moment.

“What is the fucking issue here?!” repeated Brian for the third and final time.

“It’s—It’s—It’s,” stuttered Roger, trying desperately to come up with something before the truth came out, “it’s not rock and roll!”

“What?” said John half annoyed half confused.

“It’s soft! Why’re we writing this fucking sugary, pop-y garbage?! We’re rockers for fuck’s sake! What is this?! The Women’s Institute?!” said Roger. Part of him, deep down maybe, agreed with what he’d said. Had he not thought the song to be so eerily representative of what he thought was his and John’s friendship he might’ve said something earlier. Might’ve.

“Rog,” said Freddie, with a cocked hip, “yesterday you were singing nonstop praise about this song.”

“Yeah well…hadn’t heard it all the way through, had I?” added Roger, weakly.

“It’s staying in,” spat John.

Roger turned his attention from Freddie’s all-knowing eyes to John’s. “You’re telling me there’s… _no reason_ you’d change that line?”

John clenched his jaw. “No.” His voice low but even.

Roger watched John for a moment of tense silence, waiting for him to backtrack and pull the lyric. Waiting for him to apologise. Waiting for him to do something. But after a few beats of deafening silence he turned his eyes back to this hastily scribbled sheet music. And that was that.

“Well, fine. Fine!” spat Roger. “I guess I’m an island! Leave the fucking line in see if I fucking care but play your own fucking drums!” Roger stormed to the door and heard Freddie call after him once or twice but he ignored it.

His boots slipped out from under him a few times on his way through the mud back to the main house but the anger and embarrassment rushing through him kept him upright. He stomped his way through the house and tore jacket from the coat rack before leaving out the front door. Not entire sure of where he was going but knowing he would rather be lost than in the same room as any of them.

Happy at home? They all had their share of groupie run-ins, some more than others. But Roger could see how John justified nameless, faceless, emotionless sex every night while miles away from home. This was different. It wasn’t nameless, faceless, or emotionless. At least not in Roger’s mind.

At the end of the long road up to the farm, Roger patted his pockets for a cigarette and sighed a deep, aching sigh when he found all of his pockets empty. But he had too much pride to turn back so he continued on down the dirt road, farms flanking him on both sides, nothing interesting for miles and miles.

~~~

Roger’s mind was blank and his thoughts meandering and unfinished, nothing caught his attention he just kept walking. His feet dragged across the rocky mud of the road and he would’ve stayed in that trance had a car not beeped somewhere behind him. He jumped to the side, let it pass, and took stock. Nothing in front of him looked familiar, and nothing in back of him looked familiar either.

He didn’t want to go back, he wanted to sulk until they forgot he was ever in the band with them, but with no money or cigarettes he wasn’t going to get far.

It took him long enough but he eventually set his eyes on Ridge Farm and turned into the driveway. Roger was prone to tantrums. It wasn’t something he was proud of, he hated how his emotions could so easily overtake him. But what he hated most was the shameful return and comedown after having thrown a fit. And though disappearing for a few hours wasn’t even close to the top of his list in terms of most embarrassing outbursts, the context had Roger’s hand shaking as it turned the front door’s handle.

He peered around and heard no voices. He scraped the mud from his boots on the mat and left them at the door. He rushed up the creaking steps, hoping not to see a single soul before locking himself in the bathroom and running the hot water. He stripped off his sweaty clothes and tried to mix the hot and cold streams of water in the bath as he sank down into it.

“Rog?” said Brian, knocking on the locked door. Just one moment’s peace, that’s all he fucking wanted. “Rog, you know you shouldn’t lock doors, what if you drown?”

“I’ve mastered taking baths, Brian,” sighed Roger.

“We’re ordering dinner from a restaurant. One of the engineers is going to fetch it for us.”

“Anything to avoid going out huh?” said Roger.

“If you want anything special, say it now,” said Brian, completely ignoring Roger’s ribbing.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Rog…What’s this about? We don’t change each other’s lyrics like that, you know that. Why’re you so insistent on one line?”

Roger said nothing, just sank further into the water.

“Alright well…Don’t drown,” said Brian, knocking the door one last time as a goodbye.

He wanted to stay in the bath and pout for a bit longer. At very least it meant not having to speak to anyone for awhile longer. But the water got cold and the comfort of the bath wore off. He drained the water and kicked his clothes into the neat pile accumulating in the corner before wrapping a robe around himself. His bedroom was just down the hall but he couldn’t help sprinting to it. As if, had anyone seen him, they would’ve roped him and dragged him downstairs to explain why he was so upset, why he felt so strongly.

But no one saw him, or if they did they said nothing. He closed his door and let the adrenaline built up from the short run wear off. And he laid on his bed and tried not to think too hard.

~~~

“Rog?” said Freddie on the other side of Roger’s door. Roger turned his head to check the alarm on his side table. Another hour had passed. He’d been laid out on his bed, in his robe, pathetically moping for an entire hour. And though part of him was embarrassed and ashamed he’d wasted a whole day moping over something he should’ve seen coming, most of him wanted to see how much longer he could isolate himself. Maybe if he went for a few days, people would forget.

“I’m not in,” replied Roger. “Come back later.”

“Rog, it’s been hours. You must be hungry,” said Freddie. Roger’s stomach growled at the mere mention of food. “But if you’re not in I suppose I’ll take the lovely dinner we had delivered up to us from down in town.”

“Yeah you better” said Roger, his stomach begging him to reconsider.

“Yes, I’ll take these _three lamb chops_ back downstairs. I know how you hate lamb and mint jelly.”

“Three?” said Roger despite himself.

“See, Paul ordered us each two but forgot Brian wouldn’t eat it. So I took one and I thought you might like the other but I suppose I can just throw it away—”

“Oh for God’s sake just come in,” said Roger. Freddie shifted the door open with his foot it sounded like and closed it behind himself the same way. One hand carrying a plate, the other carrying a glass of water. “That smells good.”

“It tasted good.” Freddie handed him the plate and set his glass of water on the side table.

Roger crossed his legs and settled the plate in his lap. “Knife and fork?”

Freddie pulled them from his back pocket and handed them off to Roger. Roger started digging in, not even acknowledging Freddie settling in on the bed with him. He knew why he was there and he knew he didn’t want to engage, didn’t want to talk about it, just wanted to eat and pretend he’d never joined their fucking band.

“So he…said no,” said Freddie.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“I saw you two last night, Rog. Covered in hickies, washing you trousers out. I’m not blind.”

“He spilled oil—” began Roger, trying to reiterate the lie John had so quickly formulated.

“Right, right he spilled burning hot oil on both of your trousers somehow and that same boiling hot oil happened to burn your necks in the shape of hickies, you’re right how foolish of me to have no believed that story out of hand.”

“Well,” began Roger, wondering how he could make the lie believable, wondering if he could make it believable, “well…I thought you bought it.”

“I’m not mad. And I’m not going to say I told you so.”

“You just did—”

“Rog, I know this kind of rejection isn’t something you’re very well versed in dealing with but it’s not worth more than one day of moping,” said Freddie.

“I know,” said Roger, voice catching in his throat. “I know.”

“It’ll be alright.”

“I know,” said Roger. His eyes, despite his best efforts, started to well. “I know.”

“You don’t need to cry.”

“I know,” said Roger, a few tears escaping. “You know I thought that song was about me, Fred. I’m so fuckin’ deluded that I was surprised, _surprised_ he wrote it about his fucking wife…I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Freddie put an arm around his shoulders. “You’re not an idiot.”

“I feel like one.”

“Rog, it’s embarrassing—”

“Thanks—”

“ _But_ , it’s not the end of the world. Deaky’s obviously not going to tell a soul. Brian’s more interested in getting me to help with his weird religious overture to even notice. It’s going to blow over and before you know it you’ll be laughing about it together,” said Freddie. It meant something coming from Freddie. Roger leaned more of his weight against him and Freddie held him a little tighter. “On the plus side, Brian’s been so particular and bitchy about his song all day that your little outburst is just a drop in the bucket.”

~~~

Whether Freddie had ordered everyone to never speak of his outburst again or whether they’d all just let it go, Roger couldn’t know. But the next morning when they all worked on the backing tracks for a few songs together, no one said anything when John’s song was added to the mix. Roger included. He wasn’t cold but he didn’t say anything that didn’t absolutely need to be said. Only piping up to confess he’d slipped up at some point or to suggest a rewrite of the beat but other than that he was calm.

That’s how he wanted to appear to everyone anyway. Calm and collected and completely moved on from his barely contained emotions from the day before. With the backbeat done, Roger’s involvement with the song was practically none. Their focus has also shifted back to Freddie’s cowboy song in some respects and Brian’s country song in others. There was much more to be done that just John’s. So he was distracted. For a few days, for a few nights, he could forget it all happened.

In those days and nights he said hello and the occasional goodnight to John but beyond that the best he could do was fake some small talk. He and John had always been close and not speaking to him for so long felt unnatural. But speaking to him would only rub salt in the wound. And though it hurt to admit to himself, John didn’t seem bothered. In fact he seemed totally fine with the limited contact they’d had.

The nights Roger might’ve spent playing pool or scratching out beats by the coffee table while John read were now spent in his bedroom. It was safe in there and he could hear Freddie humming his scraps of songs across the hall. Better than trying to make small talk with John or arguing with Brian.

It was one of those lonely nights again, spent reading words he wasn’t bothering to process. Too early to sleep, too late to start anything new. He might’ve drifted off early, something he never did, had his door not creaked open. Roger closed the magazine spread across his lap and sat up. The mess of John’s hair peeped in from around the frame.

“Oh, you’re awake,” said John, opening the door the rest of the way with one swift motion, letting himself into the room.

“I am,” said Roger. “What do you need?”

“I found something.” John’s smile was ear to ear, and the look on his face was that of childish mischief.

“What something?” said Roger. This was already more words than had been said to each other the past few days but Roger wasn’t going to be the one to point that out or do anything to scare him off.

“Come with me,” said John, turning on his heel and rambling down the hall. Roger held his breath for a few seconds before following behind him. Down the hall, down the stairs where he caught up to John who scurried a few steps in front of him, meandering through the house and out, down the alley between the main house and the old storage shed.

“John, where’re we—” began Roger.

“Sh!” replied John. They rounded the side of the shed and John stopped them both short in front of the doors. Roger stared at him expectantly, waiting for the next move. John stared back with a goofy grin painting across his face. Roger couldn’t help but mimic it. Once John saw Roger was on board, he threw open the shed.

“The whole time,” said Roger staring into the darkness of the shed, the moonlight just barely showcasing it’s contents.

“Freddie told me,” said John. “Don’t tell him I told you though.”

Roger took a step into the shed and ran his fingertips across the bonnet of Paul’s car. They’d been denied a car, too easy for them to leave and fuck around in town and Paul kept his car under lock and key.

“What should we do?” said Roger, a thrill in his voice, “Key it? Or just roll it into a lake?”

“I thought,” said John as he stepped into the shed, “we could drive it.”

“I don’t know how to hot wire a car, Deaks,” said Roger with a huffy laugh. John sidled up to Roger and very casually spun a set of keys around his index finger. “How?!”

“Nicked ‘em out of his jacket pocket earlier today,” said John. “So?”

Roger took the keys off John’s finger and stuffed them into the lock of the driver’s side door. “Hurry up and get in, I want to get as far away as we can.”

The two of them slammed their car doors in unison. Roger turned the engine over and John held onto the seat when Roger punched it out of the shed and down the muddy drive way up from the main road. Roger peeled out of the farm’s gate and howled in victory once they were gunning it down the main road that connected them to the nearby town.

“We’re free!” laughed John.

“Finally!” replied Roger. “Now let’s see how fast this thing can go.”

“Freddie’s going to murder us,” laughed John, clearly not worried about Freddie in the moment.

“Oh Paul can handle it! This is a car that deserves to be driven,” said Roger.

Paul had money and his car reflected that. They could’ve stayed there all night with the windows down trying to catch a little bit of air going over the steep hills around the little dirt roads. The radio blared music neither of them had ever heard before and the air was clean and chilled.

“Fuck!” screamed John after Roger punched it over yet another hill. “Almost! Almost!”

“Fuck _almost_ , we definitely were flying just then!” said Roger, looking back at the ramp of a hill they’d just cleared.

“You’re foolin’ yourself, Rog!” said John, his voice just barely cutting in over the music. So Roger turned it down and slowed the car, preparing to put it in reverse while they caught their breaths. “I’m glad you agreed to come.”

“Agreed to come? You dragged me to Paul’s car and put the keys in my hand, there was no decision.” Roger rolled through the mud hoping not to get stuck while he turned the car around.

“Well…we haven’t been talking so much I thought you might…” said John vaguely.

“I…didn’t know you minded…the whole not talking thing.” Roger had an excuse not to look John in the eye and that was the three point turn he was trying to complete which he decided he might as well drag out until this painful conversation was through.

“Of course I did, Rog, you’re my best friend.”

“Well,” said Roger, trying to state the obvious without letting the bitterness come through. He failed miserably.

“I’m sorry about that, that stupid fucking song,” said John.

“Don’t be sorry.” Roger sighed and stopped his meager attempts to pretend to be focused on the turn. He took his hands off the wheel and slumped back in his seat. “You’re allowed to write love songs for the person you love.”

“You know that’s not what happened. I had something I wanted to say to you and instead of manning up and saying it I…just stuffed it into a song and sprung it on you the morning after we’d…”

“It’s fine.” Roger ran his fingers across the leather stitching in the steeling wheel, anything to avoid looking at John.

“It’s not fine, you don’t have to pretend it is.”

“You have a wife,” said Roger, finally daring to look in John’s direction, “I knew that.”

“It’s not that black and white,” John turned toward him more.

“I know it’s different. I’m not just a groupie or a girl at a club, but you said yourself, it’s just fun, it’s just a way to pass the time while we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere and I forgot that.”

“Come on, you didn’t buy that did you?” said John, a laugh punctuating his words.

“Well…I did but…”

“Rog,” John scooted a little closer, “oblivious is a strong word to call you but…I wouldn’t risk my marriage, our friendship, and the band for ‘some fun’.”

“What’re you saying,” said Roger, his voice just above a whisper as John scooted closer still.

“What do you think I’m saying?”

“I’m not doing it again,” said Roger. “I don’t want to get rejected by you _again_ , John.”

“It won’t happen again,” said John. Roger stared into John’s blown pupils as he inched closer and closer and closer, and slowly, and softly, kissed him. Roger’s eyes slipped closed when he did, and he didn’t want to totally give in but he couldn’t help it. He ran a hand through John’s hair and John did the same to him. He scrambled to get as closed to Roger as he could and Roger pulled him in.

“Paul’ll really love us getting cum on the leather seats,” said Roger, smiling against John’s lips.

John pulled away, not entirely, just enough to look Roger in the eye. “I don’t want that.”

“Oh,” said Roger, confused but mostly irritated, “I thought that’s where this was—”

“Not here. I want you in a bed, for once. In a bed, in a room with a door that locks.”

“You can be as loud as you want in here,” said Roger, lurching forward hoping to capture his lips in another kiss. Just as he lurched forward, John leaned back.

“I don’t want to be cramped in the backseat of a car, or panicking in the living room of our shared house.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it,” said John as a smirk crept onto his face.

“Okay.”

The ride home was ten minutes at most, but it felt like decades. There was such a pit in Roger’s stomach the entire ride. John pressed against him, shifting gears when Roger asked, didn’t help the nerves building in him. When it was time to pull the car back into the shed, John jumped out to flag Roger in and make sure they didn’t leave anything incriminating behind on the paint job.

Roger jumped out and helped John shove the shed doors back into place. They stopped then, to look each other over in the moonlight. Both silent, both hiding blushes. Eventually Roger took John’s hand, slowly and tentatively, and lead him back to the main house.

~~~

“My door doesn’t have two locks,” said Roger as he twisted the door lock and threaded the chain lock.

“Your room didn’t used to be a cellar,” said John at the bottom of the steps. He sat at the end of his bed, unzipped his boots and tossed them halfway across the room. “Care to join me?”

“I…yeah I do,” laughed Roger. He’d never been one to be shy or awkward in sexual situations but this one was warranted. He took a few steps towards John and sat by his side on the bed. John’s hand covered Roger’s as it gripped the mattress.

“You seem tense,” said John, shifting closer.

“You don’t,” said Roger with an awkward laugh. “Have you done this before?”

“Yes,” said John as it were obvious, “with you.”

“We didn’t…do the full…We didn’t—What did you have in mind?” stammered Roger.

John stifled a laugh. “I had the same thing in mind, Rog.”

“Well…I’ve never done _that_ with a man, have you?”

“Not yet.” John trailed a hand up Roger’s chest and rested at his neck only to pull him in again. John kissed with such softness and tenderness, and an undercurrent of passion. He was the perfect level of pliant and needy in Roger’s arms.

Roger fell into it easy from there. All his anxieties washed away as he melted into John. He slowly but surely pinned him to the bed and let their legs tangle together as they hung off the edge of the mattress. It wasn’t a totally new feeling, to have his body pressed to John’s, but the context made it feel brand new, and every square inch of him that touched John was on fire with longing to get closer.

He pulled away, just enough to see John, to really see him, to stroke his hair and look into his eyes.

“Something wrong?” mumbled John.

“Course not, Deaks,” replied Roger. He kissed him with as much fervour as John could take and did all he could to tug John’s sweater off while John worked the buttons off on his shirt. Roger sat back on John’s hips and wriggled out of his sleeves while John tore his sweater off and threw it.

John stared up at him expectantly, and Roger stared down at him with a smirk. He trailed his fingertips down his chest, slopping to unbutton and unzip his trousers.

“I stole something,” said John.

“What?” said Roger with a laugh.

John stretched to his night stand and opened the drawer. “I got it from Freddie.”

“Were you,” Roger gestured to nothing in particular as he stared at the bottle of lube, “expecting this to happen.”

“Wasn’t expecting,” whispered John, “just hoping.”

“Still ‘happy at home’ then, Deaks?” said Roger.

“Here’s home, Rog. Now come on, fuck me,” said John, his voice a whisper and whine. Roger held his breath for one moment, then two. Then he reached out and snatched the lube from John’s grip.

He tore John’s trousers off, his pants following suit. And he’d done this with women before, he knew how much preparation John would need and how much distraction he’d need. There was a look of anxiety or uncertainty on John’s face as he watched Roger strip and situate between his legs, but once John’s thighs were on Roger’s hips he calmed. And once Roger’s lips were against John’s, he relaxed. Roger kissed and swallowed the gasp and groans that escaped John when Roger’s first slicked finger entered him.

Roger started leaving marks on John’s neck as he added finger after finger. John winced every time and once he’d gotten used to it he was back to whining and whispering Roger’s name. Roger pulled away ever so slightly, once he had four fingers in John, and mumbled against his neck, “You ready?”

John nodded, desperate and flushed and totally unable to speak.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” Roger pressed a kiss to his jaw and coated himself in as much lube as he could before he slid into John.

It wasn’t easy, and John’s face was screwed up in discomfort the whole time, but eventually Roger’s hips were pressed to his thighs, as deep as he could get. Roger stayed perfectly still and kissed all over John’s pained face, waiting for it to subside, waiting for John to get used to the feeling. And that time came after a minute or two of John whispering ‘don’t move’ on repeat.

“Okay,” said John, “okay you can move, but go really slow.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Is it good?” said John. “Does it feel good for you?”

“Feels fucking amazing,” choked Roger. He pushed and pulled his hips once or twice and watched John get used to the feeling. “Feels incredible, Deaks.”

“Fuck, it’s big,” said John. “But it’s good, it’s good, you can move.”

He rolled his hips. Just enough to get some relief from the desperate need to mindlessly rut into him, just enough. John kept his eyes on Roger. Half zoned out and focused on the feeling. Roger was much the same, too stunned and desperate to focus on anything but John.

“Faster, Rog,” said John, his voice weak and cracking.

It was a blur then. They both got lost in the haze of each other. John adjusted quickly to feeling and let Roger do as he pleased. Roger had complained over and over about how frigid his room was but as his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead he couldn’t help but wish for one of the drafts from his own room. The only sounds echoing off the brick were Roger’s grunts, John’s choked moans, and the intense squeaking of the metal bed frame.

“Rog,” whined John, his hand steadily pumping his leaking cock, “Rog, I’m close.”

“Yeah?” was all Roger could manage. John nodded as his hand sped up.

“Deeper, please, harder,” whimpered John.

Roger was quick to oblige, pounding into John with all he had and trying not finish before John could. John bucked up into his own hand and against Roger’s hips, moaned Roger’s name and scratched his way across Roger’s back and down his right arm, deep and painful but Roger couldn’t feel it. John came and damn near screamed Roger’s name when he did. John moaning and writhing beneath him, throbbing and contracting around him, it got too much almost instantly and didn’t take long for Roger to be groaning John’s name in his ear.

He panted heavy in John’s ear, trying to catch his breath. John did the same. Roger was used to the comedown being filled with regret or apathy, and part of him was expecting this to feel embarrassing or even anxiety inducing. But the only feeling flooding him was bliss. He kissed John’s temple and craned his neck to kiss his lips.

“Rog, Rog,” said John, a smile spreading across his face, “Rog, we should clean up.”

“Just wait,” sighed Roger. He sat up just barely, just enough to see John’s face totally. And he brushed away the sweat soaked strands of hair. John blushed and reached up to do the same for Roger.

“Say something, don’t just stare,” whispered Roger.

“I’ve got no words, Deaks,” mumbled Roger. “Can I sleep here?”

“You thought I’d kick you out after that?” said John, failing to hide how offended he was.

“Deaks, you’ve got a twin bed.”

“You can always sleep on top of me,” said John. Roger grinned and pressed one last kiss to his lips before rolling over onto the small space next to him. John got up only to find something to clean himself off with but was soon ripping the covers back and letting Roger wrap himself around him.

“Deaks you’ve got the softest skin,” said Roger, tracing his fingertips over John’s arm.

“Mm,” replied John mostly into Roger’s chest, half asleep but pretending to be alert.

“Deaks…you looked so fuckin’ perfect…” said Roger, his voice a little lower.

“Mm,” said John, faking another response.

“Deaks, I love you,” said Roger, his voice a whisper.

John said nothing, but soon after began snoring against Roger’s skin. That was good enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...It's been? What? 18 years since I last updated this fic? I'm so sorry! This fic happened to coincide with a lot of other events and I just couldn't seem to find the energy to get in the headspace of editing it. But it's here now and I hope anyone who was reading before will find this! <3333 Thank you so much for reading!

“Wake up! Wake the fuck up!”

Roger sat bolt upright, and remembered all too slow where he was and who he was with. John rolled on his back and blinked, tired and blurry.

“Wake up! It’s damn near noon!” screamed Freddie at John’s door. “And why’ve you locked the fucking door, open open right fucking now or we are getting a new bassist!”

“One minute!” called John up the stairs. He lowered his voice and turned to Roger. “Get dressed.”

It wasn’t the calm morning after he wanted, but nothing was easy with John. Roger searched for and slid into his clothes from the night before, righting his hair along the way. He was searching for his other shoe when John hopped up the cellar steps, tugging his trousers on, to unlock the door. He caught Freddie mid knock.

“Finally!”

“Finally,” repeated John with a breathy laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t think I’d locked it. Must’ve done it absent minded.”

He kept the door as closed as it could be and Roger stayed close to the short little stairwell hoping not to make a sound and tip Freddie off.

“Why’ve you got the door like this?” said Freddie. Roger could hear him kick it open a bit with his shoe.

“Dunno,” said John letting it swing open just a bit more. “Out of it, I suppose. Slept far too long.”

“Suppose you have, c’mon we’ve got to finish your song before Roger finds out,” laughed Freddie. “Poor thing’s still dead asleep upstairs.”

“Why poor thing?” said John, his fingers nervously drumming on the wood of the door.

“Oh,” sighed Freddie. “No reason. But c’mon, no time to waste.”

“Uh,” said John as the door creaked and as Roger heard his boots shuffle out into the hall, “okay.”

With that the door closed behind him and left Roger alone in the cellar bedroom. It definitely wasn’t the morning he thought he’d be having with John. He would’ve liked to roll over, tangle their legs together, kiss his neck, his cheek his lips until John shooed him away. Would’ve liked to feel John’s fingertips running over each notch in his spine and massaging the tight muscles in his shoulders. Would’ve liked to lie in and have John convince him to get up while he tried desperately to keep them both in bed. But what he wanted most was to ask what it mean to him.

John’s feelings were never easy to read, everyone had a hard time gauging his reactions. Roger couldn’t know if John was filled with the love Roger felt or if he was full of regret and anxiety and was going to double down on his stance the day before, insisting Veronica was the only love he needed.

He climbed the stairs up to John’s door and waited patiently, holding his breath to make sure no one would see him, before opening the door and rushing out and up the stairs to his own bedroom. Brian might not have noticed, but Freddie would if Roger hadn’t switched clothes. He pulled new trousers on, a new shirt on, and fumbled down the stairs trying to look as if he’d just woken up, which fooled Brian who sat drinking coffee and nibbling toast at the bar.

“Good morning, you look like hell,” said Brian flatly.

“Thank you, so do you,” replied Roger.

“Is the tantrum over?” said Brian.

“What?” laughed Roger as he poured himself coffee.

“The fit you threw last night? Walked out of the studio, disappeared for hours, locked yourself away in the bathtub, didn’t come down for dinner, slept until,” Brian checked his watch, “eleven. That was a grade-A Taylor tantrum you had. Are we in store for more today?”

“I,” Roger wanted to give him a cheery ‘no’, assuring him all ill will had subsided. But he wasn’t sure, not totally, that the night before meant to John what it meant to him, “don’t know yet. Jury’s out.”

“You’re such a prick,” said Brian with a laugh. “Freddie and Deaky went to work on the song, get all the pieces in place before you went in with the drums. They’re being very gracious considering the fit you threw so please don’t cause another problem.”

“I didn’t cause the first problem,” muttered Roger.

“Don’t start,” snapped Brian.

Roger made himself an egg, a breakfast sausage on the side, the packaging already out indicating John and Freddie had been through there on their way to the studio. Roger wondered if John was telling Freddie. And if he was, what was he saying. Was he telling Freddie about the best night of his life, the most eye opening sexual experience he’d ever had, or was he telling Freddie what horrible a mistake he’d made. The kind of confession he’d give after a night with a nameless groupie that was always followed by a renewed dedication to his wife. He couldn’t know and given the possibilities of the truth, he wasn’t terribly eager to find out.

“You ought to go to the studio, maybe even apologise to Deaks,” suggest Brian, his words blunt but his tone gentle.

“I don’t want to interrupt.”

“They need a backtrack, you won’t be interrupting you’ll be drumming,” said Brian. “Go on.”

Roger, without a valid excuse for why he couldn’t do that, rinsed his plate off as slowly as he could and meandered out of the kitchen and towards the barn with a mug of hot coffee in his hand. His steps were small and his heart was pounding as he made his way to the studio’s door. But once his hand hit the knob he heaved the door open with all the fake confidence in the world.

“Oh, hello,” said Freddie, sitting up at the mixing booth. “Thought you’d never wake up.”

“Morning Fred,” said Roger. He turned his attention to John then, sitting on a stool, bass in his lap, headphones over his ears, recording the bassline. His expression entirely unreadable. “Morning Deaks.”

“Morning,” said John though he didn’t look up from his bass. Freddie beckoned him into the mixing booth. He hurried in and shut the door behind him so the recording could continue. Freddie prompted John with the original demo and let him go. He worked best with no eyes focused on him so Freddie didn’t mind turning completely around to face Roger.

“How are you, darling?” said Freddie, eyes full of sympathy as John plucked out his bassline over the speakers.

“I,” Roger’s gaze drifted up to John who was too focused to notice, “I don’t know really.”

“I’m just glad to see you in the studio,” said Freddie. “If it were me I’d’ve sulked for another week, maybe even a month.”

“Fred,” said John, holding his bass up to his mouth to use it’s microphone.

“Yes, dear?” said Freddie as he held down the microphone button.

“I just remembered I didn’t call Ronnie last night, I’m taking a break,” said John as he lifted the bass strap over his head.

“You and you _wife_ and _child_ , you’re too adult to be in this childish band,” said Freddie with a grin that John reciprocated. He rested his bass against the wall and hurried out of the studio. Freddie then turned to Roger, big, sad, pitiful eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” said Roger, genuinely confused.

“Still needs warming up but I think he’s coming around,” said Freddie.

“Oh, did he,” Roger crossed his arms tight over his chest, “say anything about me?”

Freddie sighed and nodded. “This morning he said he hoped you slept in, didn’t want to talk to you. But give him time, he’s just shaken up.”

“He didn’t want to talk to me?” said Roger. He leant back against the wall.

“He didn’t say _that_ exactly, he just said you two had a difficult conversation ahead,” said Freddie. “He’s a little jumpy too, I mean since when has he not called Veronica on the dot? That was a pretty flimsy excuse.”

“He didn’t call her last night, that wasn’t a lie,” said Roger.

“How would you know that?” Freddie’s eyes got wide when Roger let silence hang instead of answering. “What happened?”

“Don’t tell a soul—”

“Obviously,” said Freddie as he crossed his heart.

“Last night he came to mend the fences and he told me he wanted me, only me, that he really meant it this time. And well, one thing led to another. This morning when you woke him up, we didn’t get a chance to say anything about it. But I think…this makes it pretty clear what he wants to do,” said Roger, biting the skin around his thumbnail anxiously.

Freddie rubbed his eyes tiredly as Roger’s words sank in. Roger hated to put him in this position. Anything that threatened the band’s integrity worried Freddie day and night. But he needed someone to lean on, and the only someone he knew would understand was Freddie.

“Well,” said Freddie, “I guess you should go talk to him.”

“Fuck no,” said Roger. “He’s just gonna tell me last night was a fluke, I can’t…I can’t—Freddie I can’t do it again—I can’t—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Freddie stood and hurried to put his hands on Roger’s shoulders. “Don’t work yourself up about it. This is the last straw, okay, if he says no now then you can put it behind you. That’s a good thing, you can close the book on this.”

Roger massaged his temple, the headache building in his head threatening to split his skull. “Whatever lets just record.”

~~~

Roger played through and recorded the drums for John’s song as fast as he could and rushed out of the booth once they were done. He took the long route back inside to avoid crossing paths with John before fumbling to the kitchen for more coffee. Brian made some acknowledgement of his presence before announcing he had work to do as well on one of the handfuls of his songs he was working on.

The risk of being out in the open was too great knowing John could wander in at any moment. So he retreated. First to the parlour where one of the pianos was set up. Then around to the study where he could at least be pretending to read if someone caught him avoiding everyone and his work, then out to the pastures with the few chickens clucking at his feet while he tried very hard to be inconspicuously hidden as well as aloof. If he heard voices, if he heard creaking floors, he held his breath and hoped to be left alone and for nearly the entire afternoon he was successful.

The sun was just beginning to set when he got cocky and wandered to the kitchen for something to eat other than black coffee.

“There you are,” came Freddie’s voice. Roger pulled an old casserole dish out of the fridge and tired to look at Freddie as if he hadn’t been painstakingly avoiding them all day.

“Oh, hi,” said Roger

“‘Oh hi’? I know this is all very delicate but you cant skip out on work for the entire day, Rog. We need drums, or would you have me do them?” said Freddie with a playful smirk.

“I wasn’t avoiding anyone,” said Roger as his stomach growled. “I was getting inspired or…something like that.”

“Uh huh,” said Freddie, not buying a word of it, Roger not really caring to sell it. He followed Freddie back to the studio and dragged him into the mixing booth where Brian was reclined in one of the chairs. Freddie pulled the second chair out for Roger and shoved him into it.

“You found him,” said Brian with a grin. “Skiving off studio time is not really your style, Rog.”

Roger awkwardly laughed and pointedly avoided looking at John through the glass. He was sat up on a stool again, bass in his lap, plucking out what Roger was sure was Sweet Lady.

“Deaks have you and Rog worked this bassline together with the drums or are you flying solo?” said Freddie into the microphone.

John lifted his bass to his mouth. “Solo.”

“Alright well you and Roger discuss it, Brian’s getting cranky we’re going for coffees.” Freddie lifted his finger off the microphone and Roger turned to him with a pained look, suddenly very grateful that the booth was soundproof.

“Not now,” said Roger. “Fred—”

“I’m not cranky,” interrupted Brian.

“No you’re not, but Roger and Deaks have a lot to discuss and they need privacy,” said Freddie. He leant over and grabbed Brian’s wrist, hoisting him out of his chair.

“I thought you made up about the song?” said Brian.

Roger ignored him in favour of begging Freddie one more time not to leave him alone. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

“We’ve got an album to make, we don’t have time for this secondary school bullshit,” said Freddie in as sweet of a voice as he could. “If you can fuck him, you can talk to him.”

“If _what?”_ said Brian. Freddie just tugged his sleeve out the mixing booth door and out the studio altogether.

Which left Roger there, behind the desk, behind the glass, and John with his bass, unsure of what to do next. Roger knew he was bright red. Something that happened more from stress than from embarrassment with him. His stomach was turning, his head was light, and his heart pounding. He didn’t want to know what John was thinking, what Veronica said to him, what he said to Veronica. He wanted to remain in the limbo where there was still a chance John wanted him.

“Hi,” said John into his bass’s microphone.

“Hi,” said Roger before realising he hadn’t pressed the button. He reached over, breathy and embarrassed and repeated, “hi.”

“Haven’t seen you since you woke up,” said John. “You’ve been dodging me.”

“I know I…” Roger wondered what excuse he could give, what excuse would warrant avoiding him all day, what excuse seemed the least pathetic. But he never found one. “I was worried.”

“Can you come out here, I don’t like talking through microphones,” said John with a smirk.

“No,” replied Roger, his hands shaking as he kept the button pressed. “What did Ronnie say?”

“What?” laughed John.

“This morning, you called her. Did she convinced you to stay,” said Roger, looking a lot more sure of himself than he felt.

“Uh,” said John, the bass still being held up to his lips awkwardly. “She said she’s sorry I didn’t call last night, I said hello to Robert, she wished me luck on my work and I hung up.”

“Why did you,” the words ‘call her before you talked to me’ wanted to come out but they sounded so possessive, obsessive, “why didn’t you talk to me this morning?”

“Freddie pulled me out of the room, literally _pulled me_ out,” said John.

“No, I mean when I came later,” Roger could feel his composure slipping. “I said good morning and then you went to call Ronnie.”

“Yes,” said John with a shrug, “I forgot to call her last night.”

“Why did last night mean to you?” said Roger before he could edit out the pathetic nature of his words.

“What?” said John, genuine confusion on his face. “Rog, you’re all over the place.”

Roger groaned and stood up. He hated this, hated being vulnerable, hated being the dramatic one, the desperate one. It was foreign territory for him and it was humiliating. He sighed and leaned down to the microphone. “This morning Freddie told me you said you had a difficult conversation ahead with me. John just tell me now if you’re going to reject me _again_.”

“For fuck’s sake,” said John. He leapt off his stool and practically threw his bass back into it’s stand before hurrying into the mixing booth.

“Just say it,” said Roger. “If you don’t want to be with me then fine—”

“I do!” said John with a frustrated laugh. “I want to be with you!”

“Then…You wouldn’t look at me this morning—the difficult conversation—” began Roger, still panicking.

John sighed and put a hand on Roger’s wrist, running his thumb over the thing skin there. “This morning I was embarrassed, I felt like a virgin all over again. I’m sorry I didn’t look at you but I did look _for_ you all afternoon, I’ve been dying to talk to you but you kept avoiding me I figured that meant something.”

“What about the difficult conversation,” said Roger, softening up despite himself, “what did you mean by difficult conversation when you told Freddie th—”

“Roger,” interrupted John, a calming hand pressed to Roger’s chest, “I have a wife that I’m putting you ahead of. If you want me, if you _really_ want me, then it’s going to be bumpy for awhile. That’s what I meant, but the longer you hid away in the study the more I figured we wouldn’t need to talk about it anyway.”

“Oh,” said Roger, his guard falling, his defenses increasingly useless. “Well…now I feel…stupid.”

“What else is new?” teased John. He splayed a hand across Roger’s cheek and leant in, slow and tentative as he pressed his lips to Roger’s. Roger snaked a hand around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” said Roger, pulling away, “I panicked, I thought you were going to say no.”

“I don’t blame you for panicking given what Freddie said, given what,” John averted his eyes, “ _I’ve_ said before. But I meant it, I mean it. I want you.”

“Leave it to me to cause a scene for no reason,” said Roger as John’s hand trailed up and down his spine.

“One of many reasons I love you,” said John with a grin, a grin that turned quickly into horror.

“You love me?” said Roger with a teasing smile.

“Just came out—I’m sorry, I didn’t—you don’t have to say it I—” stuttered John, he’s cheeks going beautifully pink, his eyes looking at Roger with equal parts adoration and apology.

“I love you too,” said Roger, shutting him up.

“Oh thank god.” John breathed a sigh of relief and swatted Roger’s back for letting him stammer on like that.

Roger laughed and squeezed him as tight as he could, burying his face in John’s neck and holding on to all of him that he could. Neither wanting to let go, neither feeling the need to. Roger pulled back just enough to press a kiss to John’s jaw, then further up to his cheek before finally landing on his lips. John hummed into his mouth and gripped the back of Roger’s shirt for dear life.

A bang on the mixing room door broke them both out of their daze as they jumped away from each other.

“You’ve made up now start making up for lost time on those backing tracks and save _all of this_ for later,” said Freddie as he swung the door open. “Look you’ve embarrassed poor Brian.” Freddie gestured to Brian who was awkwardly petering around the studio, pretending to be very interested in John’s bass.

“I’m not—I’m not embarrassed!” said Brian, his face beet red.

“Sorry Bri,” replied Roger, his face equally red.

It was awkward, maneuvering around each other as they switched around in the mixing booth and amongst the instruments. A lot of new information had become rather public between them, in a short amount of time, a lot of changes that everyone knew about but no one mentioned. A lot of looks between each other as they tried to silently acknowledge it.

But once Roger got behind his kit and John got back on his bass it wasn’t so raw. Once they’d played through a few songs, tweaked them as they went he felt he was finally back in the groove. For the first time in what felt like ages he felt totally comfortable with everyone there, in every way he wanted to. A weight lifted off him knowing he didn’t have to wonder where he stood with John, or make excuses for Brian, or confess it all to Freddie. He had only happiness ahead of him now, and could feel John thinking the same thing as he turned to Roger, a goofy grin painted on his face, and gave him a big thumbs up as Roger’s cymbals faded out.

“How was that?” said Roger, out of breath and sweaty from so many takes.

“Shit!” said Brian into the mic.

“If you spent as much time practicing as you do fucking Deaky you’d be Bonham,” teased Freddie.

“ _Freddie,_ ” scolded Brian, ripping the microphone away from him.

“If you’d tried him, you wouldn’t waste time practicing either,” said Roger.

“ _Roger,_ ” scolded John, turning to him with bright red cheeks.

“He started it—” began Roger.

“I did not start it—You started it with your shitty playing!” said Freddie, just barely getting a hold of the microphone in Brian’s grip.

“Give it! Give it—” said Brian as he once again shoved Freddie away from the microphone, not once breaking a smile while Freddie giggled. Roger couldn’t help laugh at the scene either, which prompted John to do the same though he was still pretending to be mad. He was glad to see nothing changed, glad to know that Roger could switch teams, could fuck one of their bandmates, could cause a divorce, could throw a two-day tantrum about the whole thing, and Freddie would still, without fail, make fun of him for it. And John would be right there, laughing alongside him. Just as always.


End file.
